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PLAYS BY 

JOHN GALSWORTHY 



THE SILVER BOX 

JOY 

STRIFE 

JUSTICE 

THE LITTLE DREAM 

THE ELDEST SON 

THE PIGEON 



THE PIGEON 

A FANTASY IN THREE ACTS 



THE PIGEON 

A FANTASY IN THREE ACTS 

BY 

JOHN GALSWORTHY 



"... Without that. Monsieur, all is 
dry as a parched skin of orange." 



NEW YORK 
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1912 






^# Copyright, 1912, bt 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 




C)CID 20030 



^ 



PERSONS OF THE PLAY 

Christopher Wellwyn, an artist 
Ann, his daughter 
Guinevere Megan, a flower-seller 
RoRY Megan, her husband 
Ferrand, an alien 
TiMSON, once a cabman 
Edward Bertley, a Canon 
Alfred Calway, a Professor 
Sir Thomas Hoxton, a Justice of the Peace 
Also a police constable, three humble-men, and some 
curious persons 

The action passes in Wellwyn' s Studio, and the street out- 
side. 

ACT I. Christmas Eve. 
ACT 11. New Year's Day. 
ACT III. The First of April- 



CAST OF THE FIRST PRODUCTION 

BY 

MESSRS. J. E. VEDRENNE AND DENNIS EADIE 

AT THE 

ROYALTY THEATRE, LONDON, ON JANUARY 30th, 1912 



Christopher Wellwyn 

Ann 
Ferrand 

TiMSON 

Mrs. Megan 
Megan 

Canon Bertley 
Professor Calway 
Sir Thomas Hoxton 
Police Constable 
First Humble-man 
Second Humble-man 
Third Humble-man 
A Loafer 



Mr. Whitford Kane 
Miss Gladys Cooper 
Mr. Dennis Eadie 
Mr. Wilfred Shine 
Miss Margaret Morris 
Mr. Stanley Logan 
Mr. Hubert Harben 
Mr. Frank Vernon 
Mr. Frederick Lloyd 
Mr. Arthur B. Murray 
Mr. W. Lemmon Warde 
Mr. F. B. J. Sharp 
Mr. Arthur Bowyer 
Mr. Arthur Baxendell 



ACT I 

It is the night of Christmas Eve, the scene w a Studio, 
flush with the street, having a skylight darkened by a 
fall of snow. There is no one in the room, the walls 
of which are whitewashed, above a floor of bare dark 
boards. A fire is cheerfully burning. On a models 
platform stands an easel and canvas. There are 
busts and pictures; a screen, a little stool, two arm- 
chairs, and a long old-fashioned settle under the win- 
dow. A door in one wall leads to the house, a door 
in the opposite wall to the modeVs dressing-room, and 
the street door is in the centre of the wall between. 
On a low table a Russian samovar is hissing, and 
beside it on a tray stands a teapot, with glasses, 
lemon, sugar, and a decanter of rum. Through a 
huge uncurtained window close to the street door the 
snowy lamplit street can be seen, and beyond it the 
river and a night of stars. 

The sound of a latchkey turned in the lock of the street 
door, and Ann Wellwyn enters, a girl of seventeen, 
with hair tied in a ribbon and covered by a scarf. 
Leaving the door open, she turns up the electric light 
and goes to the fire. She throws off her scarf and 
long red cloak. She is dressed in a high evening 
frock of some soft white material. Her movements 

1 



2 THE PIGEON ACT I 

are quick and substantial. Her face, full of no non- 
sense, is decided and sincere, ivith deep-set eyes, and 
a capable, ivell-shaped forehead. Shredding off her 
gloves she warTns her hands. 
In the doorway appear the figures of two men. The first 
is rather short and slight, with a soft short beard, 
bright soft eyes, and a crumply face. Under hi^ 
squash hat his hair is rather plentiful and rather 
grey. He ivears an old brown ulster and woollen 
gloves, and is puffing at a hand-made cigarette. He 
is Ann's father, Wellwyn, the artist. His com- 
panion is a well-wrapped clergyman of medium 
height and stoutish build, toith a pleasant, rosy face, 
rather shining eyes, and rather chubby clean-shaped 
lips; in appearance, indeed, a grown-up boy. He 
is the Vicar of the parish — Canon Bertley. 

Bertley. My dear Wellwyn, the whole question of 
reform is full of difficulty. When you have two men 
like Professor Calway and Sir Thomas Hoxton taking 
diametrically opposite points of view, as we've seen 
to-night, I confess, I 

Wellwyn. Come in, Vicar, and have some grog. 

Bertley. Not to-night, thanks! Christmas to- 
morrow ! Great temptation, though, this room ! Good- 
night, Wellwyn; good-night, Ann! 

Ann. [Coming from the fire towards the tea-table.] 
Good-night, Canon Bertley. 

[He goes out, and Wellwyn, shidting the door 
after him, approaches the fire. 



ACT I THE PIGEON 3 

Ann. [Sitting on the little stool, with Iter back to the 
fire, and making tea.] Daddy! 

Wellwyn. My dear? 

Ann. You say you liked Professor Cal way's lec- 
ture. Is it going to do you any good, that's the 
question.'^ 

Wellwyn. I — I hope so, Ann. 

Ann. I took you on purpose. Your charity's get- 
ting simply awful. Those two this morning cleared out 
all my housekeeping money. 

Wellwyn. Um! Um! I quite understand your 
feeling. 

Ann. They both had your card, so I couldn't refuse 
— didn't know what you'd said to them. Why don't 
you make it a rule never to give your card to anj^one 
except really decent people, and — picture dealers, of 
course. 

Wellwyn. My dear, I have — often. 

Ann. Then why don't you keep it? It's a frightful 
habit. You are naughty. Daddy. One of these days 
you'll get yourself into most fearful complications. 

Wellwyn. My dear, when they — when they look at 
you? 

Ann. You know the house wants all sorts of things. 
Why do you speak to them at all? 

Wellwyn. I don't — they speak to me. 

[He takes off his ulster and hangs it over the back 
of an arm-chair. 

Ann. They see you coming. Anybody can see you 
coming, Daddy. That's why you ought to be so 



4 THE PIGEON act i 

careful. I shall make you wear a hard hat. Those 
squashy hats of yours are hopelessly inefficient. 

Wellwyn. [Gazing at his hat.] Calway wears one. 

Ann. As if anyone would beg of Professor Cal- 
way. 

Wellwyn. Well — perhaps not. You know, Ann, I 
admire that fellow. Wonderful power of — of — theory ! 
How a man can be so absolutely tidy in his mind! It's 
most exciting. 

Ann. Has any one begged of you to-day.'' 

Wellwyn. [Doubtfully.] No — no. 

Ann. [After a long, severe look.] Will you have rum 
in your tea? 

Wellwyn. [Crestfallen.] Yes, my dear — a good deal. 

Ann. [Pouring out the rum, and handing him the glass.] 
Well, who was it? 

Wellwyn. He didn't beg of me. [Losing himself in 
recollection.] Interesting old creature, Ann — real type. 
Old cabman. 

Ann. Where? 

Wellwyn. Just on the Embankment. 

Ann. Of course! Daddy, you know the Embank- 
ment ones are always rotters. 

Wellwyn. Yes, my dear; but this wasn't. 

Ann. Did you give him your card? 

Wellwyn. I — I — don't 

Ann. Did you, Daddy? 

Wellwyn. I'm rather afraid I may have! 

Ann. May have! It's simply immoral. 

Wellwyn. Well, the old fellow was so awfully hu- 



ACT I THE PIGEON 5 

man, Ann. Besides, I didn't give him any money — 
hadn't got any. 

Ann. Look here. Daddy! Did you ever ask any- 
body for anything.^ You know you never did, you'd 
starve first. So would anybody decent. Then, why 
won't you see that people who beg are rotters.'^ 

Wellwyn. But, my dear, we're not all the same. They 
wouldn't do it if it wasn't natural to them. One likes to 
be friendly. What's the use of being alive if one isn't? 

Ann. Daddy, you're hopeless. 

Wellwyn. But, look here, Ann, the whole thing's so 
jolly complicated. According to Calway, we're to give 
the State all we can spare, to make the undeserving 
deserving. He's a Professor; he ought to know. But 
old Hoxton's always dinning it into me that we ought 
to support private organisations for helping the deserv- 
ing, and damn the undeserving. Well, that's just the 
opposite. And he's a J.P. Tremendous experience. 
And the Vicar seems to be for a little bit of both. Well, 
what the devil — ? My trouble is, whichever I'm with, 
he always converts me. [Ruefully.] And there's no fun 
in any of them. 

Ann. [Rising.] Oh! Daddy, you are so — don't you 
know that you're the despair of all social reformers.'^ 
[She envelops him.] There's a tear in the left knee of 
your trousers. You're not to wear them again. 

Wellwyn. Am I likely to? 

Ann. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if it isn't your 
only pair. D'you know what I live in terror of? 
[Wellwyn gives her a queer and apprehensive look. 



6 THE PIGEON act i 

Ann. That you'll take them off some day, and give 
them away in the street. Have you got any money? 
[She feels in his coat, and lie is his trousers — they find 
nothing.] Do you know that your pockets are one enor- 
mous hole.'^ 

Wellwyn. No! 

Ann. Spiritually. 

Wellwyn. Oh! Ah! H'm! 

Ann. [Severely.] Now, look here, Daddy! [She takes 
him by his lappels.] Don't imagine that it isn't the most 
disgusting luxury on your part to go on giving away 
things as you do! You know what you really are, I 
suppose — a sickly sentimentahst! 

Wellwyn. [Breaking away from her, disturbed.] It 
isn't sentiment. It's simply that they seem to me 
so — so — ^jolly. If I'm to give up feeling sort of 
— nice in here [he touches his chest] about people — it 
doesn't matter who they are — then I don't know 
what I'm to do. I shall have to sit with my head 
in a bag. 

Ann. I think you ought to. 

Wellwtn. I suppose they see I like them — then 
they tell me things. After that, of course you can't 
help doing what you can. 

Ann. Well, if you will love them up! 

Wellwyn. My dear, I don't want to. It isn't them 
especially — whj% I feel it even with old Calway some- 
times. It's only Providence that he doesn't want any- 
thing of me — except to make me like himself — con- 
found him! 



ACT I THE PIGEON 7 

Ann. [Moving towards the door into the house — im- 
pressively.] What you don't see is that other people 
aren't a bit like you. 

Wellwyn. Well, thank God! 

Ann. It's so old-fashioned too! I'm going to bed 

I just leave you to your conscience. 

Wellwyn. Oh! 

Ann. [Opening the door— severely.] Good-night — 
[with a certain weakening] you old — Daddy! 

[She jumps at him, gives him a hug, and goes out. 

[Wellwyn stands perfectly still. He first gazes 

up at the skylight, then down at the floor. Slowly 

he begins to shake his head, and mutter, as he 

moves towards the fire. 

Wellwyn. Bad lot. . . . Low type— no backbone, 
no stability! 

[There comes a fluttering knock on tJie outer door. 
As the sound slowly enters his consciousness, he 
begins to wince, as though he knew, but would 
not admit its signiflcance. Then he sits down, 
covering his ears. The knocking does not cease. 
Wellwyn drops first one, then both hands, rises, 
and begins to sidle towards the door. The knock- 
ing becomes louder. 
Wellwyn. Ah dear! Tt! Tt! Tt! 

[After a look in the direction of Ann's disap- 
pearance, lie opens the street door a very little way. 
By the light of the lamp there can be seen a young 
girl in dark clothes, huddled in a shawl to which 



8 THE PIGEON act i 

the snow is clinging. She has on her arm a bas- 
ket covered with a bit of sacking. 
Wellwyn. I can't, you know; it's impossible. 

[The girl says nothing, but looks at him with dark 
eyes, 
Wellwyn. [Wincing.] Let's see — ^I don't know you 
—do I? 

[The girl, speaking in a soft, hoarse voice, with a 

faint accent of reproach: *'Mrs. Megan — you 

give me this — " She holds out a dirty visiting 

card. 

Wellwyn. [Recoiling from the card.] Oh! Did I.'* 

Ah! When? 

Mrs. Megan. You 'ad some vi'lets oflF of me larst 
spring. You give me 'arf a crown. 

[A smile tries to visit her face. 
Wellwyn. [Looking stealthily round.] Ah! Well, 
come in — just for a minute — it's very cold — and tell us 
what it is. 

[She comes in stolidly, a sphinx-like figure, with 
her pretty tragic little face. 
Wellwyn. I don't remember you. [Looking closer.] 
Yes, I do. Only — you weren't the same — were you.'' 
Mrs. Megan. [Dully.] I seen trouble smce. 
Wellwyn. Trouble! Have some tea? 

[He looks anxiously at the door into the house, then 
goes quickly to the table, and pours out a glass of 
tea, putting rum into it. 
Wellwyn. [Handing her the tea.] Keeps the cold out! 
Drink it off! 



ACT I THE PIGEON 9 

[Mrs. Megan drinks it off, chokes a little^ and 
almost immediately seems to get a size larger. 
Wellwyn watches her with his head held on 
one side, and a smile broadening on his face. 

Wellwyn. Cure for all evils, um.'* 

Mrs. Megan. It warms you. [She smiles. 

Wellwyn. [Smiling back, and catching himself out.] 
Well ! You know, I oughtn't. 

Mrs. Megan. [Conscious of the disruption of his per- 
sonality, and withdrawing into her tragic abyss.] I 
wouldn't 'a come, but you told me if I wanted an 
'and 

Wellwyn. [Gradually losing himself in his own na- 
ture.] Let me see — corner of Flight Street, wasn't it.f* 

Mrs. Megan. [With faint eagerness.] Yes, sir, an* 
I told you about me vi'lets — it was a luvly spring 
day. 

Wellwyn. Beautiful! Beautiful! Birds singing, 
and the trees, &c.! We had quite a talk. You had a 
baby with you. 

Mrs. Megan. Yes. I got married since then. 

Wellwyn. Oh! Ah! Yes! [Cheerfully.] And how's 
the baby.'^ 

Mrs. Megan. [Turning to stone.] I lost her. 

Wellwyn. Oh! poor — Um! 

Mrs. Megan. [Impassive.] You said something 
abaht makin' a picture of me. [With faint eagerness.] 
So I thought I might come, in case you'd forgotten. 

Wellwyn. [Looking at her intently.] Things going 
badly.? 



10 THE PIGEON act i 

Mrs. Megan. [Stripping the sacking off her basket.] 
I keep 'em covered up, but the cold gets to 'em. 
Thruppence— that's all I've took. 

Wellwyn. Ho! Tt! Tt! [He looks into the basket.] 
Christmas, too! 

Mrs. Megan. They're dead. 

Wellwyn. [Drawing in his breath.] Got a good hus- 
band.'' 

Mrs. Megan. He plays cards. 

Wellwyn. Oh, Lord! And what are you doing out 

— with a cold like that.f^ [He taps his chest. 

Mrs. Megan. We was sold up this morning — he's 

gone off with 'is mates. Haven't took enough yet for 

a night's lodgin'. 

Wellwyn. [Correcting a spasmodic dive into his 
pockets.] But who buys flowers at this time of night.'* 

[Mrs. Megan looks at him, and faintly smiles. 
Wellwyn. [Rumpling his hair.] Saints above us! 
Here! Come to the fire! 

[She follows him to the fire. He shuts the street 
door. 
Wellwyn. Are your feet wet? [She nods.] Well, sit 
down here, and take them off. That's right. 

[Sfie sits on the stool. And after a slow look up at 
him, which has in it a deeper knowledge than 
belongs of right to her years, begins taking off 
her shoes and stockings. Wellwyn goes to the 
door into the house, opens it, and listens with a 
sort of stealthy casualness. He returns whis- 
tling, but not out loud. The girl has finished tak- 



ACT I THE PIGEON 11 

ing off her stockings, and turned her bare toes 
to the flames. She shuffles them hack under her 
skirt. 

Wellwyn. How old are you, my child? 

Mrs. Megan. Nineteen, come Candlemas. 

Wellwyn. And what's your namcf^ 

Mrs. Megan. Guinevere. 

Wellwyn. What? Welsh? 

Mrs. Megan. Yes — from Battersea. 

Wellwyn. And your husband? 

Mrs. Megan. No. Irish, 'e is. Notting Dale, 'e 
comes from. 

Wellwyn. Roman Catholic? 

Mrs. Megan. Yes. My 'usband's an atheist as 
well. 

Wellwyn. I see. [Ahstraxdedly .] How jolly! And 
how old is he — this young man of yours? 

Mrs. Megan. 'E'll be twenty soon. 

Wellwttn. Babes in the wood! Does he treat you 
badly? 

Mrs. Megan. No. 

Wellwyn. Nor drink? 

Mrs. Megan. No. He's not a bad one. Only he 
gets playin' cards — then 'e'll fly the kite. 

Wellwyn. I see. And when he's not flying it, what 
does he do? 

IVIrs. Megan. {Touching her basket.] Same as me. 
Other jobs tires 'im. 

Wellwyn. That's very nice! [He checks himself.] 
Well, what am I to do with you? 



n THE PIGEON ACT I 

Mks. Megan. Of course, I could get me night's 
lodging if I like to do — the same as some of them. 
Wellwyn. No! no! Never, my child! Never! 
Mrs. Megan. It's easy that way. 
Wellwyn. Heavens! But your husband ! Um? 
Mbs. Megan. [With stoical vindictiveness.] He's after 
one I know of. 

Wellwyn. Tt! What a pickle! 

Mrs. Megan. I'll 'ave to walk about the streets. 

Wellwyn. [To himself.] Now how can 1? 

[Mrs. Megan looks up and smiles at him, as if 
she had already discovered that he is peculiar. 
Wellwyn. You see, the fact is, I mustn't give you 
anything — because — well, for one thing I haven't got 
it. There are other reasons, but that's the — real one. 
But, now, there's a little room where my models dress. 
I wonder if you could sleep there. Come, and see. 

[The Girl gets up lingeringly, loth to leave the 
warmth. She takes up her wet stockings. 
Mrs. Megan. Shall I put them on again.? 
Wellwyn. No, no; there's a nice warm pair of 
slippers. [Seeiiig the steam rising from her.] Why, you're 
wet all over. Here, wait a little! 

[He crosses to the door into the house^ and after 
stealthy listening, steps through. TJw Girl, like 
a cat, steals hack to the warmth of the fire. 
Wellwyn returns with a candle, a canary- 
coloured hath gown, and two hlankets. 
Wellwyn. Now then! [He precedes her towards the 
door of the model's room,.] Hsssh! [He opens the door and 



ACT I THE PIGEON 13 

holds up the candle to show her the room.] Will it do? 
There's a couch. You'll find some washing things. 
Make yourself quite at home. See! 

[The Girl, perfectly dumb, passes through with her 
basket — and her shoes and stockings. Wellwyn 
hands her the candle, blankets, and bath gown. 
Wellwyn. Have a good sleep, child! Forget that 
you're alive! [He closes the door, mournfully.] Done it 
again! [He goes to the table, cuts a large slice of cake, 
knocks on the door, and hands it in.] Chow-chow! 
[Then, as he walks away, he sights the opposite door.] 
Well — damn it, what could I have done? Not a far- 
thing on me! [He goes to the street door to shut it, but first 
opens it wide to confirm himself in hw hospitality.] Night 
like this! 

[A sputter of snow is blown in his face. A voice 
says: "Monsieur, pardon!" Wellwyn re- 
coils spasmodically. A figure moves from the 
lamp-post to the doorway. He is seen to be 
young and to have ragged clothes. He speaks 
again: "You do not remember me. Monsieur? 
My name is Ferrand — it was in Paris, in 
the Champs-Elysees — by the fountain. . . . 
When you came to the door, Monsieur — ^I am 
not made of iron. . . . Tenez, here is your 
card — I have never lost it." He holds out to 
Wellwyn an old and dirty visiting card. As 
inch by inch he has advanced into the doorway, 
the light from within falls on him, a tall gaunt 
young pagan ivith fair hair and reddish golden 



14 THE PIGEON act i 

stubble of beardy a long ironical nose a little to one 
side, and large, grey, rather prominent eyes. 
There is a certain grace in his figure and rnove- 
ments; his clothes are nearly dropping off him. 

Wellwyn. [Yielding to a pleasant memory.] Ah! yes. 
By the fountain. I was sitting there, and you came 
and ate a roll, and drank the water. 

Ferrand. [With faint eagerness.] My breakfast. I 
was in poverty — veree bad off. You gave me ten francs. 
I thought I had a little the right [Wellwyn makes a 
movement of disconcertion], seeing you said that if I came 
to England 

Wellwyn. Um! And so you've come.'* 

Ferrand. It was time that I consolidated my for- 
tunes. Monsieur. 

Wellwyn. And you — have 

[He stops embarrassed. 

Ferrand. [Shrugging his ragged shoulders.] One is 
not yet Rothschild. 

Wellwyn. [Sympathetically.] No. [Yielding to mem- 
ory.] We talked philosophy. 

Ferrand. I have not yet changed my opinion. We 
other vagabonds, we are exploited by the bourgeois. 
This is always my idea. Monsieur. 

Wellwyn. Yes — not quite the general view, per- 
haps! Well — [Heartily.] Come in! Very glad to see 
you again. 

Ferrand. [Brushing his arms over his eyes.] Pardon, 
Monsieur — your goodness — I am a little weak. [He 
opens his coat, and shows a belt draum very tight over his 



ACT I THE PIGEON 15 

ragged shirt.] I tighten him one hole for each meal, 
during two days now. That gives you courage. 

Wellwyn. [With cooing sounds ^ pouring out tea^ and 

adding rum.\ Have some of this. It'll buck you up. 

[He watches the young man drink. 

Ferrand. [Becoming a size larger.] Sometimes I 
think that I will never succeed to dominate my life, 
Monsieur — though I have no vices, except that I guard 
always the aspiration to achieve success. But I will 
not roll myself under the machine of existence to gain a 
nothing every day. I must find with what to fly a little. 

Wellwyn. [Delicately.] Yes; yes — I remember, you 
found it difficult to stay long in any particular — yes. 

Ferrand. [Proudly.] In one little corner.? No — 
Monsieur — never! That is not in my character. I 
must see life. 

Wellwyn. Quite, quite! Have some cake? 

[He cuts cake. 

Ferrand. In your country they say you cannot eat 
the cake and have it. But one must always try. Mon- 
sieur; one must never be content. [Refusing the cake.] 
Grand merci, but for the moment I have no stomach — 
I have lost my stomach now for two days. If I could 
smoke. Monsieur! [He makes the gesture of smoking. 

Wellwyn. Rather! [Handing his tobacco pouch.] 
Roll yourself one. 

Ferrand. [Rapidly rolling a cigarette.] If I had not 
found you, Monsieur — I would have been a little hole 
in the river to-night — I was so discouraged. [He inhales 
and puffs a long luxurious whiff of smoke. Very bitterly.] 



16 THE PIGEON act i 

Life! [He disperses the puff of smoke with his finger, and 
stares before him.] And to think that in a few minutes 
HE will be born ! Monsieur ! [He gazes intently at Well- 
WYN.] The world would reproach you for your goodness 
to me. 

Wellwyn. [Looking uneasily at the door into the 
house.] You think so? Ah! 

Ferrand. Monsieur, if HE himself were on earth 
now, there would be a little heap of gentlemen writing 
to the journals every day to call Him sloppee senti- 
mentalist! And what is veree funny, these gentlemen 
they would all be most strong Christians. [He regards 
Wellwyn deeply.] But that will not trouble you, 
Monsieur; I saw well from the first that you are no 
Christian. You have so kind a face. 
Wellwyn. Oh! Indeed! 

Ferrand. You have not enough the Pharisee in your 
character. You do not judge, and you are judged. 

[He stretches his limbs as if in pain. 
Wellwyn. Are you in pain? 
Ferrand. I 'ave a little the rheumatism 
Wellwyn. Wet through, of course! [Glancing tow- 
ards the house.] Wait a bit! I wonder if you'd like 

these trousers; they've — er — they're not quite 

[He passes through the door into the house. Fer- 
rand stands at the fire, with his limbs spread as 
it were to embrace it, smoking with abandonment. 
Wellwyn returns stealthily , dressed in a Jaeger 
dressing-gown, and bearing a pair of drawers, 
his trousers, a pair of slippers, and a sweater. 



ACT I THE PIGEON 17 

Wellwyn. [Speaking in a low voice, for the door is still 
open.] Can you make these do for the moment? 

Ferrand. Je vous remercie. Monsieur. [Pointing to 
the screen.] May I retire? 
Wellwyn. Yes, yes. 

[Ferrand goes behind the screen. Wellwyn 
closes the door into the house, then goes to the win- 
dow to draw the curtains. He suddenly recoils 
and stands petrified with doubt. 
Wellwyn. Good Lord! 

[There is the sound of tapping on glass. Against 
the window-pane is pressed the face of a man. 
Wellwyn motions to him to go away. He does 
not go, but continues tapping. Wellwyn opens 
the door. There enters a square old man, with a 
red, pendukms- jawed, shaking face under a snow 
besprinkled bowler hat. He is holding out a 
visiting card with tremulous hand. 
Wellwyn. Who's that? Who are you? 
Timson. [In a thick, hoarse, shaking voice.] 'Appy to 
see you, sir; we 'ad a talk this morning. Timson — I 
give you me name. You invited of me, if ye remember. 
Wellwyn. It's a little late, really. 
Timson. Well, ye see, I never expected to 'ave to 
call on yer. I was 'itched up all right when I spoke to 
yer this mornin', but bein' Christmas, things 'ave took 
a turn with me to-day. [He speaks with increasing thick- 
ness.] I'm reg'lar disgusted — not got the price of a bed 
abaht me. Thought you wouldn't like me to be deli- 
cate — not at my age. 



18 THE PIGEON act i 

Wellwyn. [With a mechanical and distracted dive of 
his hands into his pockets.] The fact is, it so happens I 
haven't a copper on me. 

TiMSON. [Evidently taking this for professional re- 
fusal.] Wouldn't arsk you if I could 'elp it. 'Ad to do 
with 'orses all me life. It's this 'ere cold I'm frightened 
of. I'm afraid I'll go to sleep. 

Wellwyn. Well, really, I 

TiMSON. To be froze to death — I mean — it*s awk- 
ward. 

Wellwyn. [Puzzled and unhappy.] Well — come in 
a moment, and let's — think it out. Have some tea! 
[He pours out the remains of the tea^ and finding 
there is not very much, adds rum rather liber- 
ally. TiMSON, who walks a little wide at the 
knees, steadying his gait, has followed. 
TiMSON. [Receiving the drink.] Yer 'ealth. 'Ere's — 
soberiety! [He applies the drink to his lips with shaking 
hand. Agreeably surprised.] BHmey! Thish j^^er tea's 
foreign, ain't it? 

Ferrand. [Reappearing from behind the screen in his 
new clothes of which the trousers stop too soon.] With a 
needle. Monsieur, I would soon have with what to make 
face against the world. 

Wellwyn. Too short! Ah! 

[He goes to the dais on which stands Ann's work- 
basket, and takes from it a needle and cotton. 
[While he is so engaged Ferrand is sizing up old 
TiMSON, as one dog will another. The old man, 
glass in hand, seems to have lapsed into coma. 



ACT I THE PIGEON 19 

Ferrand. [Indicating Timson.] Monsieur! 

[He makes the gesture of one drinking, and shakes 
his head. 

Wellwyn. [Handing him the needle and cotton.] Urn! 
Afraid so! 

[They approach Timson, who takes no notice. 

Ferrand. [Gently.] It is an old cabby, is it not. Mon- 
sieur? Ceux sont tons des buveurs. 

Wellwyn. [Concerned at the old man^s stupefaction.] 
Now, my old friend, sit down a moment. [They ma- 
noeuvre Timson to the settle.] Will you smoke .^^ 

Timson. [In a drowsy voice.] Thank 'ee — smoke pipe 
of 'baccer. Old 'orse — standin' abaht in th' cold. 

[He relapses into coma. 

Ferrand. [With a click of his tongue. ] II est parti. 

Wellwyn. [Doubtfully.] He hasn't really left a 
horse outside, do you think? 

Ferrand. Non, non. Monsieur — no 'orse. He is 
dreaming. I know very well that state of him — that 
catches you sometimes. It is the warmth sudden on 
the stomach. He will speak no more sense to-night. 
At the most, drink, and fly a little in his past. 

Wellwyn. Poor old buflFer! 

Ferrand. Touching, is it not, Monsieur? There are 
many brave gents among the old cabbies — they have 
philosophy — that comes from 'orses, and from sitting 
still. 

Wellwyn. [TouchingTiMS>o^'^ shoulder.] Drenched! 

Ferrand. That will do 'im no 'arm. Monsieur — no 
'arm at all. He is well wet inside, remember — it is 



20 THE PIGEON act i 

Christmas to-morrow. Put him a rug, if you will, he 
will soon steam. 

[Wellwyn takes up Ann's long red cloaks and 
wraps it round the old man. 

TiMSON. [Faintly roused.] Tha's right. Put — the 
rug on th' old 'orse. 

[He makes a strange noise, and works his head and 
tongue. 

Wellwyn. [Alarmed.] What's the matter with him? 

Ferrand. It is nothing, Monsieur; for the moment 
he thinks 'imself a 'orse. // joue ** ca^he-cachey'' 'ide 
and seek, with what you call — 'is bitt. 

Wellwyn. But what's to be done with him.'^ One 
can't turn him out in this state. 

Ferrand. If you wish to leave him 'ere. Monsieur, 
have no fear. I charge myself with him. 

Wellwyn. Oh! [Dubiously.] You — er — I really don't 
know, I — hadn't contemplated — You think you could 
manage if I — if I went to bed? 

Ferrand. But certainly. Monsieur. 

Wellwyn. [Still dubiously.] You — you're sure you've 
everything you want? 

Ferr^ind. [Bowing.] Mais oui. Monsieur. 

Wellwyn. I don't know what I can do by staj^ing. 

Ferrand. There is nothing you can do, Monsieur. 
Have confidence in me. 

Wellwyn. Well — ^keep the fire up quietly — very 
quietly. You'd better take this coat of mine, too. 
You'll find it precious cold, I expect, about three 
o'clock. [He hands Ferrand his ulster. 



ACT I THE PIGEON 21 

Ferrand. [Taking it] I shall sleep in praying for 
you, Monsieur. 

Wellwyn. Ah! Yes! Thanks! Well— good-night ! 
By the way, I shall be down rather early. Have to 
think of my household a bit, you know. 

Ferrand. Tres bien. Monsieur. I comprehend. 
One must well be regular in this life. 

Wellwyn. [With a start.] Lord! [He looks at the 

door of the modeVs room.] I'd forgotten 

Ferrand. Can I undertake anything, Monsieur.^ 
Wellwyn. No, no! [He goes to the electric light switch 
by the outer door.] You won't want this, will you? 
Ferrand. Merci, Monsieur. 

[Wellwyn switches off the light. 
Ferrand. Bon soir. Monsieur! 
Wellwyn. The devil! Er — good-night! 

[He hesitates, rumples his hair, and passes rather 
suddenly away. 
Ferrand. [To himself.] Poor pigeon! [Looking long 
at old TiMSON.] Espece de type anglais! 

[He sits down in the firelight, curls up afoot on his 
knee, and taking out a knife, rips the stitching 
of a turned-up end of trouser, pinches the cloth 
double, and puts in tlie preliminary stitch of a 
new hem — all with the swiftness of one well-ac- 
customed. Then, as if hearing a sound behind 
him, he gets up quickly and slips behind the 
screen. Mrs. Megan, attracted by the cessation 
of voices, has opened the door, and is creeping 
from the model's room towards the fire. She has 



22 THE PIGEON act i 

almost reached it before she takes in the torpid 
crimson figure of old Timson. She halts and 
puts her hand to her chest — a queer figure in the 
firelight, garbed in the canary-coloured bath 
gown and rabbit' s-wool slippers, her black matted 
hair straggling down on her neck. Having quite 
digested the fact that the old man is in a sort of 
stupor, Mrs. Megan goes close to the fire, and 
sits on the little stool, smiling sideways at old 
Timson. Ferrand, coming quietly up behind, 
examines her from above, drooping his long nose 
as if enquiring with it as to her condition in 
life; then he steps back a yard or two. 

Ferrand. [Gently.] Pardon, Ma'moiselle. 
Mrs. Megan. [Springing to her feet.] Oh! 
Ferrand. All right, all right! We are brave gents! 
Timson. [Faintly roused.] 'Old up, there! 
Ferrand. Trust in me, Ma'moiselle! 

[Mrs. Megan responds by drawing away. 
Ferrand. [Gently.] We must be good comrades. 
This asylum — it is better than a doss-'ouse. 

[He pushes the stool over towards her, and seats 
himself. Somewhat reassured, Mrs. Megan 
again sits down. 
Mrs. Megan. You frightened me. 
Timson. [Unexpectedly — in a drowsy tone.] Purple 
foreigners ! 

Ferrand. Pay no attention, Ma'moiselle. He is a 
philosopher. 



ACT I THE PIGEON 23 

Mrs. Megan. Oh! I thought 'e was boozed. 

{They both look at Timson. 

Ferrand. It is the same — veree 'armless. 

Mrs. Megan. What's that he's got on 'im.? 

Ferrand. It is a coronation robe. Have no fear, 
Ma'moiselle. Veree docile potentate. 

Mrs. Megan. I wouldn't be afraid of him. [Chal- 
lenging Ferrand.] I'm afraid o' you. 

Ferrand. It is because you do not know me, Ma'- 
moiselle. You are wrong, it is always the unknown 
you should love. 

Mrs. Megan. I don't like the way you — speaks to 
me. 

Ferrand. Ah! You are a Princess in disguise.'* 

Mrs. Megan. No fear! 

Ferrand. No.^* What is it then you do to make 
face against the necessities of life.'* A living? 

Mrs. Megan. Sells flowers. 

Ferrand. [Rolling his eyes.] It is not a career. 

Mrs. Megan. [With a touch of devilry.] You don't 
know what I do. 

Ferrand. Ma'moiselle, whatever you do is char- 
ming. 

[Mrs. Megan looks at him, and slowly smiles. 

Mrs. Megan. You're a foreigner. 

Ferrand. It is true. 

Mrs. Megan. What do you do for a livin'? 

Ferrand. I am an interpreter. 

Mrs. Megan. You ain't very busy, are you? 

Ferrand. [With dignity.] At present I am resting. 



24 THE PIGEON act i 

Mrs. Megan. [Looking at him and smiling.] How 
did you and 'im come here? 

Ferrand. Ma'moiselle, we would ask you the same 
question. 

Mrs. Megan. The gentleman let me. 'E's funny. 

Ferrand. C'est un angel [At Mrs. Megan's blank 
stare he interprets.] An angel! 

Mrs. Megan. Me luck's out — that's why I come. 

Ferrand. [Rising.] Ah! Ma'moiselle! Luck! There 
is the little God who dominates us all. Look at this 
old! [He points to Timson.] He is finished. In his 
day that old would be doing good business. He could 
afford himself — [He makes a sign of drinking.] Then 
come the motor cars. All goes — he has nothing left, 
only 'is 'abits of a cocher! Luck! 

Timson. [With a vague gesture — droivsily.] Kick the 
foreign beggars out. 

Ferrand. A real Englishman. . . . And look at me! 
My father was merchant of ostrich feathers in Brussels. 
If I had been content to go in his business, I would 'ave 
been rich. But I was born to roll — "rolling stone" — 
to voyage is stronger than myself. Luck! . . . And 
you, Ma'moiselle, shall I tell your fortune.'^ [He looks 
in her face.] You were born for lajoie de vivre — to drink 
the wines of life. Et vous voildl Luck! 

[Though she does not in the least understand what he 
has said, her expression changes to a sort of glee. 

Ferrand. Yes. You were born loving pleasure. Is 
it not? You see, you cannot say. No. All of us, we 
have our fates. Give me your hand. [He kneels down 



ACT I THE PIGEON 25 

and takes her hand.] In each of us there is that against 
which we cannot struggle. Yes, yes! 

[He holds her hand, and turns it over between his 
own. Mes. Megan remains stolid, half-fasci- 
nated, half-reluctant. 
TiMSON. [Flickering into consciousness.] Be'ave your- 
selves ! Yer crimson canary birds ! 

[Mrs. M.EGAN would withdraw her hand, hut cannot. 
Ferrand. Pay no attention, Ma'moiselle. He is a 
Puritan. 

[TiMSON relapses into comatosity, upsetting his 
glass, which falls with a crash. 
Mrs. Megan. Let go my hand, please! 
Ferrand. [Relinquishing it, and staring into the fire 
gravely.] There is one thing I have never done — 'urt a 
woman — that is hardly in my character. [Then, draw- 
ing a little closer, he looks into her face.] Tell me, Ma'- 
moiselle, what is it you think of all day long? 
Mrs. Megan. I dunno — lots, I thinks of. 
Ferrand. Shall I tell you.f^ [Her eyes remain fixed 
on his, the strangeness of him preventing her from telling 
him to *'get along."* He goes on in his ironic voice.] It 
is of the streets — the lights — the faces — it is of all which 
moves, and is warm — it is of colour — it is [he brings his 
face quite close to hers] of Love. That is for you what 
the road is for me. That is for you what the rum is for 
that old — [He jerks his thumb back at Tevison. Then 
bending swiftly forward to the girl.] See! I kiss you — Ah! 
[He draws her forward off the stool. There is a 
little struggle, then she resigns her lips. The 



26 THE PIGEON act i 

little stool, overturned, falls 2vith a clatter. They 
spring up, and move apart. The door opens and 
Ajsisr enters from the hou^e in a blue dressing- 
goicn, with her hair loose, and a candle held high 
above her head. Taking in the strange half- 
circle round the stove, she recoils. Then, stand- 
ing her ground, calls in a voice sharpened by 
fright: "Daddy— Daddy!" 
TiMSON. [Stirring uneasily » and struggling to his feet.] 

All ri ! Fm comin'! 

Ferrand. Have no fear, Madame! 

[In the silence that follmcs, a clock begins loudly 
striking twelve. Ann remains, as if carved in 
stone, her eyes fastened on tlie strangers. There 
is the sound of someone falling downstairs, and 
Wellwyn appears, also holding a candle above 
his head. 
Ann. Look! 

Wellwyn. Yes, yes, my dear! It — it happened. 
Ann. [With a sort of groan.] Oh! Daddy! 

[In the renewed silence, the church clock ceases to 
chime. 
Ferrand. [Softly, in his ironic voice.] HE is come. 
Monsieur! 'Appy Christmas! Bon Noel! 

[There is a sudden chime of bells. 
The Stage is blotted dark. 

Curtain. 



ACT II 

It is four o'clock in the afternoon of New Yearns Day. 
On the raised dais Mrs. Megax is standing, in her 
rags; with bare feet and ankles, her dark hair as if 
blown about, her lips parted, holding out a dishevelled 
hunch of violets. Before his ea^el, Wellwyn is 
painting her. Behind him, at a table between the 
cupboard and the door to the modeVs room, Tmsox is 
washing brushes, vnth the movements of one employed 
upon relief works. The samovar is hissing on the 
table by the stove, the tea things are set out. 

Wellwtx. Open your mouth. 

[^Irs. Megan opens her mouth. 
Ann. [In hoi and coat, entering from the house.] 
Daddy! 

[W'ellwyn goes to her; and, released from re- 
straint, Mrs. AIegan looks round at TmsoN 
and grimaces. 
Wellwyn. Well, my dear? 

[They speak in low voices. 

Ann. [Holding out a note.] This note from Canon 

Bertley. He's going to bring her husband here this 

afternoon. [She looks at IVIrs. Megan. 

Wellwyn. Oh! [He also looks at Mrs. Megan. 

27 



28 THE PIGEON act ii 

Ann. And I met Sir Thomas Hoxton at church this 
morning, and spoke to him about Timson. 
Wellwyn. Um! 

{They look at Timson. Then Ann goes hack to 
the door, and Wellwyn follows her. 
Ann. [Turning.] I'm going round now. Daddy, to 
ask Professor Calway what we're to do with that Fer- 
rand. 

Wellwyn. Oh! One each! I wonder if they'll 
like it. 

Ann. They'll have to lump it. 

[She goes out into the house. 
Wellwyn. [Back at his easel.] You can shut your 
mouth now. 

[Mrs. Megan shuts her mouth, but opens it im- 
mediately to smile. 
Wellwyn. [Spasmodically.] Ah! Now that's what 
I want. [He dabs furiously at the canvas. Then stand- 
ing back, runs his hands through his hair and turns a 
painter^ s glance towards the skylight.] Dash! Light's 
gone! Off you get, child — don't tempt me! 

[Mrs. Megan descends. Passing towards the 
door of the modeVs room she stops, and stealthily 
looks at the picture. 
Timson. Ah! Would yer! 

Wellwyn. [Wheeling round.] Want to have a look.^ 
Well — come on! 

[He takes her by the arm, and they stand before the 
canvas. After a stolid moment, she giggles. 
Wellwyn. Oh! You think so.? 



ACT n THE PIGEON 29 

Mrs. Megan. [Who has lost her hoarseness.] It's not 
like my picture that I had on the pier. 
Wellwyn. No — it wouldn't be. 

Mrs. Megan. [Timidly.] If I had an 'at on, I'd look 
better. 

Wellwyn. With feathers .?> 

Mrs. Megan. Yes. 

Wellwyn. Well, you can't! I don't Hke hats, and 
I don't like feathers. 

[Mrs. 'Megan timidly tugs his sleeve. Timson, 
screened as he thinks by the picture, has drawn 
from his bulky pocket a bottle and is taking a 
stealthy swig. 

Wellwyn. [To Mrs. Megan, affecting not to notice.] 
How much do I owe you? 

Mrs. Megan. [A little surprised.] You paid me for 
to-day — all 'cept a penny. 

Wellwyn. Well! Here it is. [He gives her a coin.] 
Go and get your feet on ! 
Mrs. Megan. You've give me 'arf a crown. 
Wellwyn. Cut away now! 

[Mrs. Megan, smiling at the coin, goes towards 
the model's room. She looks back at Wellwyn, 
as if to draw his eyes to her, but he is gazing at 
the picture; then, catching old Timson's sour 
glance, she grimaces at him, kicking up her feet 
with a little squeal. But when Wellwyn turns 
to the sound, she is demurely passing through the 
doorway. 



30 THE PIGEON act u 

TiMSON. [In his voice of dubious sobriety.] I've fin- 
ished these yer brushes, sir. It's not a man's work. 
I've been thinkin' if you'd keep an 'orse, I could give 
yer satisfaction. 

Wellwyn. Would the horse, Timson? 

TiMSON. [Looking him up and down.] I knows of one 
that would just suit yer. Reel 'orse, you'd like 'im. 

Wellwfn. [Shaking his head.] Afraid not, Timson! 
Awfully sorry, though, to have nothing better for you 
than this, at present. 

Timson. [Faintly waving the brushes.] Of course, if 
you can't afford it, I don't press you — it's only that I 
feel I'm not doing meself justice. [Confidentially.] 
There's just one thing, sir; I can't bear to see a gen'le- 
man imposed on. That foreigner — 'e's not the sort to 
'ave about the place. Talk.? Oh! ah! But 'e'U never 
do any good with 'imself. He's a alien. 

Wellwyn. Terrible misfortune to a fellow, Timson. 

Timson. Don't you beheve it, sir; it's his fault I 
says to the young lady yesterday: Miss Ann, your 
father's a gen'leman [vnth a sudden accent of hoarse sin- 
cerity], and so you are — I don't mind sayin' it — but, I 
said, he's too easy-goin'. 

Wellwyn. Indeed! 

Timson. Well, see that girl now ! [He shakes his head.] 
I never did believe in goin' behind a person's back — 
I'm an Englishman — ^but [lowering his voice] she's a 
bad hat, sir. Why, look at the street she comes from ! 

Wellwyn. Oh! you know it. 

Timson. Lived there meself larst three years. See 



ACT u THE PIGEON 31 

the difFereuce a few days' corn's made in her. She's 
that saucy you can't touch 'er head. 

Wellwyn. Is there any necessity, Timson .'* 

TiMSON. Artful too. Full o' vice, I call'er. Where's 
'er 'usband.'^ 

Wellwyn. [Gravely.] Come, Timson ! You wouldn't 
like her to 

Timson. [With dignity, so that the bottle in his pocket 
is plainly visible.] I'm a man as always beared inspec- 
tion. 

Wellwyn. [With a well-directed smile.] So I see. 

Timson. [Curving himself round the bottle.] It's not 
for me to say nothing — but I can tell a gen'leman as 
quick as ever I can tell an 'orse. 

Wellwyn. [Painting.] I find it safest to assume 
that every man is a gentleman, and every woman a 
lady. Saves no end of self-contempt. Give me the 
little brush. 

Timson. [Handing him the brush — after a consider- 
able introspective pause.] Would yer like me to stay and 
wash it for yer again ? [With great resolution.] I will — 
I'll do it for you — never grudged workin' for a gen'le- 
man. 

Wellwyn. [With sincerity.] Thank you, Timson — 
very good of you, I'm sure. [He hands him back the 
bru^h.] Just lend us a hand with this. [Assisted by Tim- 
son he pushes back the dais.] Let's see! What do I owe 
you.? 

Timson. [Reluctantly.] It so 'appens, you advanced 
me to-day's yesterday. 



32 THE PIGEON act n 

Wellwyn. Then I suppose you want to-morrow's ? 

TiMSON. Well, I 'ad to spend it, lookin' for a per- 
manent job. When you've got to do with 'orses, you 
can't neglect the publics, or you might as well be 
dead. 

Wellwyn. Quite so! 

TiMSON. It mounts up in the course o' the year. 

Wellwyn. It would. [Passing him a coin.] This is 
for an exceptional purpose — Timson — see. Not 

TiMSON. [Touching his forehead.] Certainly, sir. I 
quite understand. I'm not that sort, as I think I've 
proved to yer, comin' here regular day after day, all 
the week. There's one thing, I ought to warn you per- 
haps — I might 'ave to give this job up any day. 

[He makes a faint demonstration with the little 
brushy then puts ity absent-mindedly , into his 
pocket. 

Wellwyn. [Gravely.] I'd never stand in the way of 
your bettering yourself, Timson. And, by the way, 
my daughter spoke to a friend about you to-day. I 
think something may come of it. 

Timson. Oh! Oh! She did! Well, it might do me 
a bit o' good. [He makes for the outer door, but stops.] 
That foreigner! 'E sticks in my gizzard. It's not as 
if there wasn't plenty o' pigeons for 'im to pluck in 'is 
own Gawd-forsaken country. Reg-lar jay, that's what 

I calls 'im. I could tell yer something 

[He has opened the door^ and suddenly sees that 
Ferrand himself is standing there. Sticking 
out his lower lip, Timson gives a roll of his jaw 



ACT II THE PIGEON 33 

and lurches forth into the street. Owing to a 
slight miscalculation, his face and raised arms 
are plainly visible through the windoio, as he for- 
tifies himself from his battle against the cold. 
Ferrand, having closed the door, stasnds with 
his thumb acting as pointer towards this spectacle. 
He is now remarkably dressed in an artist's 
squashy green hat, a frock coat k>o small for him, 
a bright bhie tie of knitted silk, the grey trousers 
that were torn, well-worn brown boots, and a tan 
waistcoat. 
Wellwyn. What luck to-day ? 
Ferrand. [With a shrug.] Again I have beaten all 
London, Monsieur — not one bite. [Contemplating him- 
self.] I think perhaps, that, for the bourgeoisie, there is 
a little too much colour in my costume. 

Wellwyn. [Contemplating him.] Let's see — ^I be- 
lieve I've an old top hat somewhere. 

Ferrand. Ah! Monsieur, merci, but that I could 
not. It is scarcely in my character. 
Wellwyn. True! 

Ferrand. I have been to merchants of wine, of tabac, 
to hotels, to Leicester Square. I have been to a — 
Society for spreading Christian knowledge — I thought 
there I would have a chance perhaps as interpreter. 
Troujours meme chose — we regret, we have no situation 
for you — same thing everywhere. It seems there is 
nothing doing in this town. 

Wellwyn. I've noticed, there never is. 

Ferrand. I was thinking, Monsieur, that in avia- 



34 THE PIGEON act ii 

tion there might be a career for me — but it seems one 
must be trained. 

Wellwyn. Afraid so, Ferrand. 
Ferrand. [Approaching the picture.] Ah! You are 
alwaj's working at this. You will have something of 
very good there. Monsieur. You wish to fix the type 
of wild savage existing ever amongst our high civilisa- 
tion. C'est ires chic pa/ [Wellwyn manifests the quiet 
delight of an English artist actually understood.] In the 
figures of these good citizens, to whom she offers her 
flower, you would give the idea of all the cage doors 
open to catch and make tame the wild bird, that will 
surely die within. Tres gentil! Believe me, Monsieur, 
you have there the greatest comedy of life ! How anx- 
ious are the tame birds to do the wild birds good. [His 
voice changes.] For the wild birds it is not funny. There 
is in some human souls, Monsieur, what cannot be 
made tame. 

Wellwyn. I believe you, Ferrand. 

[The face of a young man appears at the window^ 
unseen. Suddenly Ann opens the door leading 
to the hov^e. 
Ann. Daddy — I want you. 
Wellwyn. [To Ferrand.] Excuse me a minute! 

[He goes to his daughter, and they pass out. 
[Ferrand remains at the picture. Mrs. Megan 
dressed in some of Ann's discarded garments, 
has come out of the model's room. She steals up 
behind Ferrand like a cat, reaches an arm up, 
and curls it round his mouth. He turns, and 



ACT II THE PIGEON 85 

tries to seize her; she disingenuously slips away. 
He follows. The chase circles the tea table. He 
catches her, lifts her up, swings round with her, 
so that her feet fly oui; kisses her hent-haxik face, 
and sets her down. She stands there smiling. 
The face at the window darkens. 
Ferrand. La Valse! 

[He takes her with both hands by the waist, she puts 
her hands against his shoulders to push him off 
— and suddenly they are whirling. As they 
whirl, they bob together once or twice, and kiss. 
Then, with a warning motion towards the door, 
she wrenches herself free, and stops beside the 
picture, trying desperately to appear demure. 
Wellwyn and Ann have entered. The face 
has vanished. 
Ferrand. [Pointing to the picture.] One does not 
comprehend all this, Monsieur, without well studying. 
I was in train to interpret for Ma'moiselle the chiaro- 
scuro. 

Wellwyn. [With a queer look.] Don't take it too 
seriously, Ferrand. 

Ferrand. It is a masterpiece. 

Wellwyn. My daughter's just spoken to a friend. 
Professor Calway. He'd like to meet you. Could y^u 
come back a little later ? 

Ferrand. Certainly, Ma'moiselle. That will be an 
opening for me, I trust. [He goes to the street door. 

Ann. [Paying no attention to him.] Mrs. Megan, will 
you too come back in half an hour ? 



36 THE PIGEON act ii 

Ferrand. Tres hien, Ma'moiselle! I will see that 
she does. We will take a little promenade together. 
That will do us good. 

[He motions towards the door; Mrs. Megan, all 
eyes, follows him out. 

Ann. Oh! Daddy, they are rotters. Couldn't you 
see they were having the most high jinks ? 

Wellwyn. [At his picture.] I seemed to have no- 
ticed something. 

Ann. [Preparing for tea.] They were kissing. 

Wellwyn. Tt! Tt! 

Ann. They're hopeless, all three — especially her. 
Wish I hadn't given her my clothes now. 

Wellwyn. [Absorbed.] Something of wild-savage. 

Ann. Thank goodness it's the Vicar's business to see 
that married people live together in his parish. 

Wellwyn. Oh! [Dubiously.] The Megans are Ro- 
man Catholic-Atheists, Ann. 

Ann. [With heat.] Then they're all the more bound. 
[Wellwyn gives a sudden and alarmed whistle. 

Ann. What's the matter .f^ 

Wellwyn. Didn't you say you spoke to Sir Thomas, 
too. Suppose he comes in while the Professor's here. 
They're cat and dog. 

Ann. [Blankly.] Oh! [As Wellwyn strikes a match.] 
The samovar is lighted. [Taking up the nearly empty 
decanter of rum and going to the cupboard.] It's all right. 
He won't. 

Wellwyn. We'll hope not. 

[He turns back to his picture. 



ACT II THE PIGEON 37 

Ann. [At the cupboard.] Daddy! 

Wellwyn. Hi! 

Ann. There were three bottles. 

Wellwyn. Oh! 

Ann. Well! Now there aren't any. 

Wellwyn. [Abstracted.] That'll be Timson. 

Ann. [With real horror.] But it's awful! 

Wellwyn. It is, my dear. 

Ann. In seven days. To say nothing of the stealing. 

Wellwyn. [Vexed.] I blame myself — very much. 
Ought to have kept it locked up. 

Ann. You ought to keep him locked up! 

[There is heard a mild but authoritative knock, 

Wellwyn. Here's the Vic.ar! 

Ann. What are you going to do about the rum ? 

Wellwyn. [Opening the door to Canon Bertley.] 
Come in, Vicar! Happy New Year! 

Bertley. Same to you! Ah! Ann! I've got into 
touch with her young husband — he's coming round. 

Ann. [Still a little out of her plate.] Thank Go 

Moses ! 

Bertley. [Faintly surprised.] From what I hear he's 
not really a bad youth. Afraid he bets on horses. The 
great thing, Wellwyn, with those poor fellows is to put 
your finger on the weak spot. 

Ann. [To herself — gloomily.] That's not difficult. 
What would you do. Canon Bertley, with a man who's 
been drinking father's rum? 

Bertley. Remove the temptation, of course. 

Wellwyn. He's done that. 



38 THE PIGEON act n 

Bertley. Ah! Then — [Wellwyn and Ann hang 
on his words] then I should — er 

Ann. {Abruptly.] Remove him. _y 

Bertley. Before I say that, Ann, I must certainly 
see the individual. 

Wellwyn. [Pointing to the window.] There he is! 
[In the failing light Timson's face is indeed to be 
seen pressed against the window pane. 

Ann. Daddy, I do wish you'd have thick glass put 

in. It's so disgusting to be spied at! [Wellwyn going 

quickly to the door, has opened it] What do you want.f* 

[Timson enters toith dignity. He is fuddled. 

TiMSON. [Slowly.] Arskin' yer pardon — thought it 
me duty to come back — found thish yer little brishel on 
me. [He produces the little paint brush. 

Ann. [In a deadly voice.] Nothing else ? 

[TiMSON accords her a glassy stare. 

Wellwyn. [Taking the brush hastily.] That'll do, 
Timson, thanks! 

Timson. As I am 'ere, can I do anything for yer ? 

Ann. Yes, you can sweep out that little room. [She 
points to the model's room.] There's a broom in there. 

Timson. [Disagreeably surprised.] Certainly; never 
make bones about a little extra — never 'ave in all me 
life. Do it at onsh, I will. [He moves across to the model's 
room at that peculiar broad gait so perfectly adjusted to 
his habits.] You quite understand me — couldn't bear to 
'ave anything on me that wasn't mine. 

[He passes out. 

Ann. Old fraud! 



ACT n THE PIGEON 39 

Wellwyn. "In" and "on." Mark my words, he'll 
restore the — bottles. 

Bebtley. But, my dear Wellwyn, that is stealing. 
Wellwyn. We all have our discrepancies. Vicar. 
Ann. Daddy! Discrepa>ncies I 

Wellwyn. Well, Ann, my theory is that as regards 
solids Timson's an Individualist, but as regards liquids 
he's a Socialist ... or vice versa, according to taste. 

Bertley. No, no, we mustn't joke about it. [Gravely.] 
I do think he should be spoken to. 
Wellwyn. Yes, but not by me. 
Bertley. Surely you're the proper person. 
Wellwyn. [Shaking his head.] It was my rum. Vicar. 
Look so personal. 

[There sound a number of little tat-tat knocks. 
Wellwyn. Isn't that the Professor's knock .^ 

[While Ann sits down to make tea, he goes to the 
door and opens it. There, dressed in an ulster, 
stands a thin, clean-shaved tnan, with a little 
holloiv sucked into either cheek, who, taking off 
a grey squash hat, discloses a majestically bald 
forehead, which completely dominates all that 
comes below it. 
Wellwyn. Come in, Professor! So awfully good 
of you! You know Canon Bertley, I think .^^ 
Calway. Ah! How d'you do? 
Wellwyn. Your opinion will be invaluable, Pro- 
fessor. 
Ann. Tea, Professor Calway? 

[They have assembled round the tea table. 



40 THE PIGEON act n 

Calway. Thank you; no tea; milk. 

Wellwyn. Rum? 

[He pours rum into Calway's milk. 

Calway. A little — thanks! [Turning to Ann.] You 
were going to show me some one you're trying to rescue, 
or something, I think. 

Ann. Oh! Yes. He'll be here directly — simply per- 
fect rotter. 

Calway. [Smilirig.] Really ! Ah ! I think you said 
he was a congenital ? 

Wellwyn. [With great interest.] What! 

Ann. [Low.] Daddy! [To Calway.] Yes; I — I think 
that's what you call him. 

Calway. Not old.?* 

Ann. No; and quite healthy — a vagabond. 

Calway. [Sipping.] I see! Yes. Is it, do you think 
chronic unemployment with a vagrant tendency.'* Or 
would it be nearer the mark to say: Vagrancy 

Wellwyn. Pure! Oh! pure! Professor. Awfully 
human. 

Calway. [With a smile of knowledge.] Quite! And 
— er 

Ann. [Breaking in.] Before he comes, there's an- 
other 

Beetle y. [Blandly.] Yes, when you came in, we were 
discussing what should be done with a man who drinks 
rum — [Calway pauses in the act of drinking] that 
doesn't belong to him. 

Calway. Really! Dipsomaniac? 

Bertley. Well — perhaps you could tell us — drink 



ACT n THE PIGEON 41 

certainly changing thine to mine. The Professor could 
see him, Wellwyn ? 

Ann. [Risiiig.] Yes, do come and look at him, Pro- 
fessor Calway. He's in there. 

[She points towards the modeVs room. Calway 
smiles deprecaiingly. 
Ann. No, really; we needn't open the door. You 

can see him through the glass. He's more than half 

Calway. Well, I hardly 

Ann. Oh! Do! Come on. Professor Calway! We 
must know what to do with him. [Calway rises.] 
You can stand on a chair. It's all science. 

[She draws Calway to the model's room, which is 
lighted by a glass panel in the top of the high door. 
Canon Bertley also rises and stands watch- 
ing. Wellwyn hovers, torn between respect for 
science and dislike of espionage. 
Ann. [Drawing up a chair.] Come on! 
Calway. Do you seriously wish me to? 
Ann. Rather! It's quite safe; he can't see you. 
Calway. But he might come out. 

[Ann puts her back against the door. Calway 
mounts the chair dubiously, and raises his head 
cautiously, bending it more and more downwards. 
Ann. Well.? 

Calway. He appears to be — sitting on the floor. 
Wellwyn. Yes, that's all right! 

[Bertley covers his lips. 
Calway. [To Ann — descending.] By the look of his 



42 THE PIGEON act u 

face, as far as one can see it, I should say there was a 
leaning towards mania. I know the treatment. 

[ There come three loud knocks on tJie door. Well- 
WYN and Ann exchange a glance of consterna- 
tion. 
Ann. Who's that? 

Wellwyn. It sounds Uke Sir Thomas. 
Calway. Sir Thomas Hoxton.'^ 
Wellwyn. [Nodding.] Awfully sorry, Professor. You 



see, we 

Calway. Not at all. Only, I must decline to be in- 
volved in argument with him, please. 

Bertley. He has experience. We might get his 
opinion, don't you think.'* 

Calway. On a point of reform } A J.P. ! 
Bertley. [Deprecating.] My dear Sir — we needn't 
take it. 

[The three knocks resound with extraordinary fury . 
Ann. You'd better open the door, Daddy. 

[Wellwyn opens the door. Sir Thomas Hox- 
TON is disclosed in a fur overcoat and top hat. 
His square, ivell-coloured face is remarkable for 
a massive jaw, dominating all that comes above 
it. His voice is resolute. 
HoxTON. Afraid I didn't make myself heard. 
Wellwyn. So good of you to come, Sir Thomas. 
Canon Bertley! [They greet.] Professor Calway you 
know, I think. 

HoxTON. [Ominously.] I do. 

[They almost greet. An awkward pause. 



ACT II THE PIGEON 43 

Ann. [Blurting it out.] That old cabman I told you 
of s been drinking father's rum. 

Bertley. We were just discussing what's to be done 
with him. Sir Thomas. One wants to do the very best, 
of course. The question of reform is always delicate. 

Calway. I beg your pardon. There is no question 
here. 

HoxTON. [Abruptly.] Oh! Is he in the house .^ 

Ann. In there. 

HoxTON. Works for you, eh ? 

Wellwyn. Er — yes. 

HoxTON. Let's have a look at him! 

[An embarrassed pause. 

Bertley. Well — the fact is, Sir Thomas 

Calway. When last under observation 

Ann. He was sitting on the floor. 

Wellwyn. I don't want the old fellow to feel he's 
being made a show of. Disgusting to be spied at, Ann. 

Ann. You can't. Daddy! He's drunk. 

HoxTON. Never mind. Miss Wellwyn. Hundreds of 
these fellows before me in my time. [At Calway.] The 
only thing is a sharp lesson! 

Calway. I disagree. I've seen the man; what he 

requires is steady control, and the Dobbins treatment. 

[Wellwyn approaches them loith fearful interest. 

HoxTON. Not a bit of it! He wants one for his 
knob! Brace 'em up! It's the only thing. 

Bertley. Personally, I think that if he were spoken 
to seriously 

Calway. I cannot walk arm in arm with a crab! 



44 THE PIGEON act n 

HoxTON. [Approaching Calway.] I beg your pardon ? 

Calway. [Moving back a little.] You're moving back- 
wards, Sir Thomas. I've told you before, convinced 

reactionaryism, in these days 

[There comes a single knock on the street door. 

Bertley. [Looking at his watch.] D'you know, I'm 
rather afraid this may be our young husband, Wellwyn. 
I told him half-past four. 

Wellwyn. Oh! Ah! Yes. {Going towards the two 
reformers.] Shall we go into the house. Professor, and 
settle the question quietly while the Vicar sees a j'^oung 
man.'^ 

Calway. [Pale with uncompleted statement, and gravi- 
tating insensibly in the direction indicated.] The merest 
sense of continuity — a simple instinct for order 

HoxTON. [Following.] The only way to get order, sir, 
is to bring the disorderly up with a round turn. [Cal- 
way turns to him in the doorioay.] You people without 
practical experience 

Calway. If you'll listen to me a minute. 

HoxTON. I can show you in a mo 

[They vanish through the door, 

Wellwyn. I was afraid of it. 

Bertley. The two points of view. Pleasant to see 
such keenness. I may want you, Wellwyn. And Ann 
perhaps had better not be present. 

Wellwyn. [Relieved.] Quite so! My dear! 

[Ann goes reluctantly. Wellwyn opens tJie 
street door. The lamp outside has ju^t been 
lighted, and, by its gleam, is seen the figure of 



ACT n THE PIGEON 45 

RoRY Megan, thin, pale, youthful. Ann turn- 
ing at the door into the house gives him a long, 
inquisitive look, tlien goes. 
Wellwyn. Is that Megan ? 
Megan. Yus. 
Wellwyn. Come in. 

[Megan comes in. There follows an awkward 
silence, during which Wellwyn turns up the 
light, then goes to the tea table and pours out a 
glass of tea and rum. 
Bertley. [Kindly.] Now, my boy, how is it that 
you and your wife are living apart like this ? 
Megan. I dunno. 

Bertley. Well, if you don't, none of us are very 
likely to, are we? 

Megan. That's what I thought, as I was comin' 
along. 

Wellwyn. [Twinkling.] Have some tea, Megan? 
[Handing him the glass.] What d'you think of her pic- 
ture? 'Tisn't quite finished. 

Megan. [After scrutiny.] I seen her look like it — 
once. 

Wellwyn. Good! When was that? 

Megan. [Stoically.] When she 'ad the measles. 

[He drinks, 
Wellwyn. [Ruminating.] I see — yes. I quite see — 
feverish! 

Bertley. My dear Wellwyn, let me [To Me- 
gan.] Now, I hope you're wiUing to come together 
again, and to maintain her? 



46 THE PIGEON act h 

Megan. If she'll maintain me. 

Bertley. Oh! but I see, you mean you're in 

the same line of business .^^ 

Megan. Yus. 

Bertley. And lean on each other. Quite so! 

Megan. I leans on 'er mostly — with *er looks. 

Bertley. Indeed! Very interesting — that! 

Megan. Yus. Sometimes she'll take 'arf a crown 
off of a toff. [He looks at Wellwyn. 

Wellwyn. [Twinkling.] I apologise to you, Megan. 

Megan, [With a faint smile.] I could do with a bit 
more of it. 

Bertley. [Dubiousli/.] Yes! Yes! Now, my boy, 
I've heard you bet on horses. 

Megan. No, I don't. 

Bertley. Play cards, then ? Come! Don't be afraid 
to acknowledge it. 

Megan. When I'm 'ard up — yus. 

Bertley. But don't you know that's ruination.'^ 

Megan. Depends. Sometimes I wins a lot. 

Bertley. You know that's not at all what I mean. 
Come, promise me to give it up. 

Megan. I dunno abaht that. 

Bertley. Now, there's a good fellow. Make a big 
effort and throw the habit off! 

Megan. Comes over me — same as it might over you. 

Bertley. Over me! How do you mean, my boy.'^ 

Megan. [With a look up.] To tork! 

[Wellwyn, turning to the picture, makes a funny 
little noise. 



ACT II THE PIGEON 47 

Bertley. [Maintaining his good humour.] A hit! 
But you forget, you know, to talk's my business. It's 
not yours to gamble. 

Megan. You try sellin' flowers. If that ain't a — 

gamble 

Bertley. I'm afraid we're wandering a little from the 
point. Husband and wife should be together. You 

were brought up to that. Your father and mother 

Megan. Never was. 

Wellwyn. [Turning from the picture.] The question 
is, Megan: Will you take your wife home.'' She's a 
good little soul. 

Megan. She never let me know it. 

[There is a feeble knock on the door. 
Wellwyn. Well, now come. Here she is! 

[He points to the door, and stands regarding 
Megan with his friendly smile. 
Megan. [With a gleam of responsiveness.] I might, 
perhaps, to please you, sir. 

Bertley. [Appropriating the gesture.] Capital, I 
thought we should get on in time. 
Megan. Yus. 

[Wellwyn opens the door. Mrs. Megan and 
Ferrand are revealed. They are about to enter, 
but catching sight of Megan, hesitate. 
Bertley. Come in ! Come in ! 

[Mrs. Megan enters stolidly. Ferrand, follow- 
ing, stands apart with an air of extreme detach- 
ment. Megan, after a quick glance at them 



48 THE PIGEON act ii 

both, remains unmoved. No one has noticed 

that the door of the model's room has been opened, 

and that the unsteady figure of old Timson is 

standing there. 

Bertley. [A little aiokward in the presence of Fer- 

RAND — to the Megans.] This begins a new chapter. 

We won't improve the occasion. No need. 

[Megan, turning towards his wife, makes her a 
gesture as if to say: "Here! let's get out of 
this!" 
Bertley. Yes, yes, you'll like to get home at once 
— I know. [He holds up his hand mechanically. 

Timson. I forbids the banns. 
Bertley. [Startled.] Gracious! 
Timson. [Extremely unsteady.] Just cause and im- 
pejiment. There 'e stands. [He points to Ferrand.] 
The crimson foreigner! The mockin' jay! 
Wellwyn. Timson! 

Timson. You're a gen'leman — I'm aweer o' that — 
but I must speak the truth — [he waves his hand] an' 
shame the devil! 

Bertley. Is this the rum ? 

Timson. [Struck by the word.] I'm a teetotaler. 
Wellwyn. Timson, Timson! 

Timson. Seein' as there's ladies present, I won't be 
conspicuous. [Moving away, and making for the door, 
he strikes against the dais, and mounts upon it.] But what 
I do say, is: He's no better than 'er and she's worse. 
Bertley. This is distressing. 



ACT II THE PIGEON 49 

Ferrand. [Calmly.] On my honour, Monsieur! 

[TiMSON growls. 

Wellwtn. Now, now, Timson! 

TiMSON. That's all right. You're a gen'Ieman, an' 
I'm a gen'Ieman, but he ain't an' she ain't. 

Wellwyn. We shall not believe you. 

Bertley. No, no; we shall not believe you. 

TiMSON. [Heavily.] Very well, you doubts my word. 
Will it make any difference, Guv'nor, if I speaks the 
truth.? 

Bertley. No, certainly not — that is — of course, it 
will. 

Timson. Well, then, I see 'em plainer than I see 
[pointing at Bertley] the two of you. 

Wellwyn. Be quiet, Timson! 

Bertley. Not even her husband believes you. 

Megan. [Suddenly.] Don't I! 

Wellwyn. Come, Megan, you can see the old fel- 
low's in Paradise. 

Bertley. Do you credit such a — such an object.'* 
[He points at Timson, who seems falling asleep. 

Megan. Naow! 

[Unseen by anybody ^ Ann has returned. 

Bertley. Well, then, my boy.'* 

Megan. I seen 'em meself. 

Bertley. Gracious! But just now you were will- 
ing 

Megan. [Sardonically.] There wasn't nothing against 
me honour, then. Now you've took it away between 
you, comin' aht with it like this. I don't want no more 



50 THE PIGEON act ii 

of 'er, and I'll want a good deal more of 'im; as 'e'll 
soon find. 

[He jerks his chin at Ferrand, turns slowly on 
his heel, and goes old into the street. 

[There folloivs a profound silence. 

Ann. What did I say. Daddy.? Utter! All three. 

[Suddenly alive to her presence y they all turn. 

TiMSON. [Waking up and looking round him.] Well, 

p'raps I'd better go. 

[Assisted by Wellwyn he lurches gingerly off the 
dais towards the door, which Wellwyn holds 
open for him. 
TiMSON. [Mechanically.] Where to, sir.^^ 

[Receiving no answer he passes out, touching his 
hat; and the door is closed. 
Wellwyn. Ann! 

[Ann goes back whence she came. 

[Bertley, steadily regarding Mrs. Megan, who 

has put her arm up in front of her face, beckons 

to Ferrand, and the young man comes gravely 

forward. 

Bertley. Young people, this is very dreadful. 

[Mrs. Megan lowers her arm a little, and looks at him 

over it.] Very sad ! 

Mrs. Megan. [Dropping her arm.] Megan's no bet- 
ter than what I am. 

Bertley. Come, come! Here's your home broken 
up! [Mrs. Megan smiles. Shaking his head gravely.] 
Surely — surely — you mustn't smile. [Mrs. Megan be- 
comes tragic.] That's better. Now, what is to be done ? 



ACT II THE PIGEON 51 

Ferrand. Believe me, Monsieur, I greatly regret. 

Bertley. I'm glad to hear jt. 

Ferrand. If I had foreseen this disaster. 

Bertley. Is that your only reason for regret? 

Ferrand. [With a little bow.] Any reason that you 
wish, Monsieur. I will do my possible. 

Mrs. Megan. I could get an unfurnished room if 
[she slides her eyes round at Wellwyn] I 'ad the money 
to furnish it. 

Bertley. But suppose I can induce your husband to 
forgive you, and take you back.^ 

Mrs. Megan. [Shaking her head.] 'E'd 'it me. 

Bertley. I said to forgive. 

Mrs. Megan. That wouldn't make no difference. 
[With a flash at Bertley.] An' I ain't forgiven him! 

Bertley. That is sinful. 

Mrs. Megan. Fm a Catholic. 

Bertley. My good child, what difference does that 
make ? 

Ferrand. Monsieur, if I might interpret for her. 

[Bertley silences him with a gesture. 

Mrs. Megan. [Sliding her eyes towards Wellwyn.] 
If I 'ad the money to buy some fresh stock. 

Bertley. Yes; yes; never mind the money. What 
I want to find in you both, is repentance. 

]VIrs. Megan. [With a flash up at him.] I can't get 
me livin' off of repentin'. 

Bertley. Now, now! Never say what you know 
to be wrong. 

Ferrand. Monsieur, her soul is very simple. 



52 THE PIGEON act ii 

Bertley. [Severely.] I do not know, sir, that we 
shall get any great assistance from your views. In 
fact, one thing is clear to me, she must discontinue 
your acquaintanceship at once. 

Ferrand. Certainly, Monsieur. We have no serious 
intentions. 

Bertley. All the more shame to you, then ! 

Ferrand. Monsieur, I see perfectly your point of 
view. It is very natural. [He bows and is silent. 

Mrs. Megan. I don't want Hm hurt *cos o' me. Me- 
gan'll get his mates to belt him — bein' foreign like he is. 

Bertley. Yes, never mind that. It's you I'm think- 
ing of. 

Mrs. Megan. I'd sooner they'd hit Trie. 

Wellwyn. [Stiddenly.] Well said, my child! 

Mrs. Megan. 'Twasn't his fault. 

Ferrand. [Without irony — to Wellwyn.] I cannot 
accept that Monsieur. The blame — it is all mine. 

Ann. [Entering suddenly from the hou^e.] Daddy, 

they're having an awful ! 

[The voices of Professor Calway and Sir 
Thomas Hoxton are distinctly heard. 

Calway. The question is a much wider one. Sir 
Thomas. 

Hoxton. As wide as you like, you'll never 

[Wellwyn pushes Ann back into the hou^e and 
closes the door behind her. The voices are still 
faintly heard arguing on the threshold. 

Bertley. Let me go in here a minute, Wellwyn. I 
must finish speaking to her. [He motioTis Mrs. Megan 



ACT n THE PIGEON 53 

towards the models room.] We can't leave the matter 
thus. 

Ferrand. [Siiavely.] Do you desire my company. 
Monsieur? 

[Bertley, with a prohibitive gesture of his handy 
shepherds the reluctant Mrs. Megan into the 
modeVs room. 
Wellwyn. [Sorrowfully.] You shouldn't have done 
this, Ferrand. It wasn't the square thing. 

Ferrand. [With dignity.] Monsieur, I feel that I am 
in the wrong. It was stronger than me. 

[As he speaks. Sir Thomas Hoxton and Pro- 
fessor Calway enter from the house. In the 
dim light, and the full cry of argument, they do 
not notice the figures at the fire. Sir Thomas 
Hoxton leads towards the street door. 
Hoxton. No, sir, I repeat, if the country once com- 
mits itself to your views of reform, it's as good as 
doomed. 

Calway. I seem to have heard that before. Sir 
Thomas. And let me say at once that your hitty- 

missy cart-load of bricks regime 

Hoxton. Is a deuced sight better, sir, than your 
grand-motherly methods. What the old fellow wants 
is a shock! With all this socialistic molly-coddling, 
you're losing sight of the individual. 

Calway. [Swiftly.] You, sir, with your "devil take 
the hindmost," have never even seen him. 

[Sir Thomas Hoxton, throwing back a gesture of 
disgust, steps out into the night, and falls heavily. 



54. , THE PIGEON act ii 

Professor Calway, hxisiening to his rescue, 
jails more heavily still. 
[Timson, momentarily roused from slumber on the 
doorstep, sits up. 
HoxTON. [Struggling to his knees.] Damnation! 
Calway. [Sitting.] How simultaneous! 

[Wellwyn and Ferrand approach hastily. 
Ferrand. [Pointing to Timson.] Monsieur, it was 
true, it seems. They had lost sight of the individual. 
[A Policeman has appeared under tJie street lamp. 
He picks up Hoxton's hat. 
Constable. Anything wrong, sir.'* 
HoxTON. [Recovering his feet.] Wrong? Great Scott! 
Constable! Why do you let things lie about in the 
street like this.'* Look here, Wellwyn ! 

[They all scrutinize Timson. 
Wellwyn. It's only the old fellow whose reform 
you were discussing. 

HoxTON. How did he come here.'^ 
Constable. Drunk, sir. [Ascertaining Timson to he 
in the street.] Just off the premises, by good luck. 
Come along, father. 

Timson. [Assisted to his feet — drowsily.] Cert'nly, by 
no means; take my arm. 

{They move from the doorway. Hoxton and 
Calway re-enter , and go towards the fire. 
Ann. [Entering from the house.] What's happened ^ 
Calway. Might we have a brush.'* 
HoxTON. [Testily.] Let it dry! 



ACT II THE PIGEON 55 

[He moves to the fire and stands before it. Pro- 
fessor Calvt AY following stands a little behind 
him. Ann returning begins to brush the Pro- 
fessor's sleeve. 
Wellwyn. [Turning from tJie door, where he has stood 
looking after the receding Timson.] Poor old Timson ! 

Ferrand. [Softly.] Must be philosopher, Monsieur! 
They will but run him in a little. 

[From the modeVs room Mrs. Megan has come 
outy shepherded by Canon Bertley. 

Bertley. Let's see, your Christian name is . 

Mrs. Megan. Guinevere. 

Bertley. Oh! Ah! Ah! Ann, take Gui take 

our little friend into the study a minute: I am going to 
put her into service. We shall make a new woman of 
her, yet. 

Ann. [Handing Canon Bertley the brush, and turn- 
ing to Mrs. jVIegan.] Come on ! 

[She leads into the house, and Mrs. 'Mega:^ follows 
stolidly. 
Bertley. [Brushing Calway's back.] Have you 
faUen.^ 
Calway. Yes. 

Bertley. Dear me! How was that.^ 
Hoxton. That old ruflfian drunk on the doorstep. 
Hope they'll give him a sharp dose ! These rag-tags ! 

[He looks round, and his angry eyes light by chance 
on Ferr-And. 
Ferrand. [With his eyes on Hoxton — softly.] Mon- 



5Q THE PIGEON act ii 

sieur, something tells me it is time I took the road 
again. 

Wellwyn. [Fumbling out a sovereign.] Take this, 
then! 

Ferrand. [Refusing the coin.] Non, Monsieur. To 
abuse 'ospitality is not in my character. 

Bertley. We must not despair of anyone. 

HoxTON. Who talked of despairing.? Treat him, as 
I say, and you'll see! 

Calway. The interest of the State 

HoxTON. The interest of the individual citizen 



sir- 



Bertley. Come! A little of both, a little of both! 

[They resume their brushing. 

Ferrand. You are now debarrassed of us three. 

Monsieur. I leave you instead — these sirs. [He points.] 

Au revoir. Monsieur! [Motioning towards the fire.] 

'Appy New Year! 

[He slips quietly out. Wellwyn, turning, con- 
templates the three reformers. They are all now 
brushing away, scratching each other^s backs, 
and gravely hissing. As he approaches them, 
they speak with a certain unanimity. 

HoxTON. My theory ! 

Calway. My theory ! 

Bertley. My theory ! 

[They stop surprised. Wellwyn makes a gesture 
of discomfort, as they speak again with still more 
unanimity. 



ACT n 



THE PIGEON 57 



HoxTON. My ! 

Calway. My '. 

Bertley. My ' 

[They stop in greater surprise. 

The stage is blotted dark. 
Curtain. 



ACT III 

It is the first of April — a white spring day of gleams and 
driving showers. The street door of Wellwyn's 
studio stands wide open, and, past it, in the street, 
the wind is whirling bits of straw and paper bags. 
Through the door can be seen the butt end of a sta- 
tionary furniture van with its flap let down. To this 
van three humble-men in shirt sleeves and aprons, 
are carrying out the contents of the studio. The hiss- 
ing samovar, the tea-pot, the sugar, and the nearly 
empty decanter of rum stand on the low round table 
in the fast-being-gutted room. Wellwyn in his 
ulster and soft hat, is squatting on the little stool in 
front of the blazing fire, staring into it, and smoking 
a hand-made cigarette. He has a moulting air. 
Behind him the humble-men pass, embracing busts 
and other articles of vertu. 

Chief H'man. [Stopping, and standing in the attitude 
of expectation.] We've about pinched this little lot, sir. 
Shall we take the — reservoir? 

[He indicates the samovar. 

Wellwyn. Ah! [Abstractedly feeling in his pockets, 

and finding coins.] Thanks— thanks— heavy work, I'm 

afraid. 

59 



60 THE PIGEON act hi 

H'man. [Receiving the coins — a little surprised and a 
good deal pleased.] Thank'ee, sir. Much obliged, I'm 
sure. We'll 'ave to come back for this. [He gives the 
dais a vigorous push with his foot.] Not a fixture, as I 
understand. Perhaps you'd like us to leave these 'ere 
for a bit. [He indicates the tea things, 

Wellwyn. Ah! do. 

[The humble-men go out. There is the sound of 
horses being started, and the butt end of the van 
disappears. Wellwyn stays on his stool, 
smoking and brooding over the fire. The open 
doorway is darkened by a figure. Canon Bert- 
ley is standing there. 
Bertley. Wellwyn! [Wellwyn turns and rises.] 
It's ages since I saw you. No idea you were moving. 
This is very dreadful. 

Wellwyn. Yes, Ann found this — too exposed. That 
tall house in Flight Street — we're going there. Seventh 
floor. 
Bertley. Lift? 

[Wellwyn shakes his head. 
Bertley. Dear me ! No lift ? Fine view, no doubt. 
[Wellwyn nods.] You'll be greatly missed. 

Wellwyn. So Ann thinks. Vicar, what's become 
of that little flower-seller I was painting at Christmas "^ 
You took her into service. 

Bertley. Not we — exactly! Some dear friends of 
ours. Painful subject! 
Wellwyn. Oh! 
Bertley. Yes. She got the footman into trouble. 



ACT in THE PIGEON 61 

Wellwyn. Did she, now ? 

Bertley. Disappointing. I consulted with Calway, 
and he advised me to try a certain institution. We got 
her safely in — excellent place; but, d'you know, she 
broke out three weeks ago. And since — I've heard — 
[he holds his hands up] hopeless, I'm afraid — quite! 

Wellwyn. I thought I saw her last night. You can't 
tell me her address, I suppose ? 

Bertley. [Shaking his head.] The husband too has 
quite passed out of my ken. He betted on horses, you 
remember. I'm sometimes tempted to believe there's 
nothing for some of these poor folk but to pray for 
death. 

[Ann has entered from the house. Her hair hangs 
from under a knitted cap. She wears a white 
wool jersey, and a loose silk scarf. 

Bertley. Ah! Ann. I was telling your father of 
that poor little Mrs. Megan. 

Ann. Is she dead? 

Bertley. Worse I fear. By the way — what became 
of her accomplice? 

Ann. We haven't seen him since. [She looks search- 
ingly at Wellwyn.] At least — have you — Daddy? 

Wellwyn. [Rather hurt.] No, my dear; I have not. 

Bertley. And the — old gentleman who drank the 
rum? 

Ann. He got fourteen days. It was the fifth time. 

Bertley. Dear me! 

Ann. When he came out he got more drunk than 
ever. Rather a score for Professor Calway, wasn't it? 



m THE PIGEON ACT in 

Bertley. I remember. He and Sir Thomas took 
a kindly interest in the old fellow. 

Ann. Yes, they fell over him. The Professor got 
him into an Institution. 

Bertley. Indeed! 

Ann. He was perfectly sober all the time he was 
there. 

Wellwyn. My dear, they only allow them milk. 

Ann. Well, anyway, he was reformed. 

Wellwyn. Ye — yes! 

Ann. [Terribly.] Daddy! You've been seeing him! 

Wellwyn. [With dignity.] My dear, I have not. 

Ann. How do you know, then? 

Wellwyt^t. Came across Sir Thomas on the Em- 
bankment yesterday; told me old Timson had been 
had up again for sitting down in front of a brewer's 
dray. 

Ann. WTiy? 

Wellwyn. Well, you see, as soon as he came out 
of the what d'you call 'em, he got drunk for a week, 
and it left him in low spirits. 

Bertley. Do you mean he deliberately sat down, 
with the intention — of — er? 

Wellwyn. Said he was tired of life, but they didn't 
believe him. 

Ann. Rather a score for Sir Thomas! I suppose 
he'd told the Professor.^ What did he say.'^ 

Wellwyn. Well, the Professor said [with a quick 
glance at Bertley] he felt there was nothing for some 
of these poor devils but a lethal chamber. 



ACT in THE PIGEON 63 

Bertley. [Shocked.] Did he really! 

[He has not yet caught Wellwyn's glance. 

Wellwyn. And Sir Thomas agreed. Historic oc- 
casion. And you, Vicar — H'm! 

[Bertley winces, 

Ann. [To herself.] Well, there isn't. 

Bertley. And yet! Some good in the old fellow, no 
doubt, if one could put one's finger on it. [Preparing to 
go.] You'll let us know, then, when you're settled. 
What was the address.^ [Wellwyn takes out and hands 
him a card.] Ah! yes. Good-bye, Ann. Good-bye, 
Wellwyn. [The wind blows his hat along the street.] 
What a wind! [He goes, pursuing. 

Ann. [Who has eyed the card askance.] Daddy, have 
you told those other two where we're going.? 

Wellwyn. Which other two, my dear? 

Ann. The Professor and Sir Thomas. 

Wellwyn. Well, Ann, naturally I 

Ann. [Jumping on to the dais with disgust.] Oh, dear! 
When I'm trying to get you away from all this atmos- 
phere. I don't so much mind the Vicar knowing, be- 
cause he's got a weak heart 

{She jumps off again. 

Wellwyn. [To himself.] Seventh floor! I felt there 
was something. 

Ann. [Preparing to go.] I'm going roxmd now. But 
you must stay here till the van comes back. And don't 
forget you tipped the men after the first load. 

Wellwyn. Oh! yes, yes. [Uneasily.] Good sorts 
they look, those fellows! 



64 THE PIGEON act in 

Ann. [Scrutinising him.] What have you done? 

Wellwyn. Nothing, my dear, really ! 

Ann. What.^ 

Wellwyn. I — ^I rather think I may have tipped 
them twice. 

Ann. [Drily.] Daddy! If it is the first of April, it's 
not necessary to make a fool of oneself. That's the 
last time you ever do these ridiculous things. [Well- 
wyn eyes her askance.] I'm going to see that you spend 
your money on yourself. You needn't look at me like 
that! I mean to. As soon as I've got you away frc*i 

here, and all — these 

Wellwyn. Don't rub it in, Ann ! 
Ann. [Giving him a sudden hug — then going to the 
door — with a sort of triumph.] Deeds, not words. 
Daddy! 

[She goes out, and the wind catching her scarf 
blows it out beneath her firm young chin. Well- 
wyn returning to the fire, stands brooding, and 
gazing at his extinct cigarette. 
Wellwyn. [To himself.] Bad lot — low type! No 
method! No theory! 

[In the open doorway appear Ferrand and Mrs. 
Megan. They stand, unseen, looking at him. 
Ferrand is more ragged, if possible, tlian on 
Christn^as Eve. His chin and cheeks are clothed 
in a reddish golden beard. Mrs. Megan's 
dress is not so woe-begone, but her face is white, 
her eyes dark-circled . They whisper. She slips 
back into the shadow of the doorway. Well- 



ACT m THE PIGEON 65 

WYN turns at the sound, and stares at Ferrand 
in amazement. 

Ferrand. [Advancing.] Enchanted to see you, Mon- 
sieur. [He looks round the empty room.] You are leaving ? 

Wellwyn. [Nodding — then taking the young man^s 
hand.] How goes it? 

Ferrand. [Displaying himself, simply.] As you see. 
Monsieur. I have done of my best. It still flies from 
me. 

Wellwyn. [Sadly — as if against his will.] Ferrand, 
illfwill always fly. 

[The young foreigner shivers suddenly from head 
to foot; then controls himself with a great effort. 

Ferrand. Don't say that. Monsieur! It is too 
much the echo of my heart. 

Wellwyn. Forgive me ! I didn't mean to pain you. 

Ferrand. [Drawing nearer the fire.] That old cabby. 
Monsieur, you remember — they tell me, he nearly suc- 
ceeded to gain happiness the other day. 

[Wellwyn nods. 

Ferrand. And those Sirs, so interested in him, with 
their theories.'^ He has worn them out? [Wellwyn 
nods.] That goes without saying. And now they wish 
for him the lethal chamber. 

Wellwyn. [Startled.] How did you know that? 

[There is silence. 

Ferrand. [Staring into the fire.] Monsieur, while I 
was on the road this time I fell ill of a fever. It seemed 
to me in my illness that I saw the truth — how I was 
wasting in this world — I would never be good for any 



66 THE PIGEON act m 

one — nor any one for me — all would go by, and I never 
of it — fame, and fortune, and peace, even the necessi- 
ties of life, ever mocking me. 

[He draws closer to the fire, spreading his fingers 
to theflanie. And lohile he is speaking, through 
the doorway Mrs. Megan creeps in to listen. 

Ferrand. [Speaking on into the fire.] And I saw. 
Monsieur, so plain, that I should be vagabond all my 
days, and my days short, I dying in the end the death 
of a dog. I saw it all in my fever — clear as that flame 
— there was nothing for us others, but the herb of deatln 
[Wellwyn takes his arm and presses it.] And so, Mon- 
sieur, I wished to die. I told no one of my fever. I 
lay out on the ground — it was verree cold. But they 
would not let me die on the roads of their parishes — 
they took me to an Institution, Monsieur, I looked in 
their eyes while I lay there, and I saw more clear than 
the blue heaven that they thought it best that I should 
die, although they would not let me. Then Monsieur, 
naturally my spirit rose, and I said: "So much the 
worse for you. I will live a little more." One is made 
like that! Life is sweet, Monsieur. 

Wellwyn. Yes, Ferrand; Life is sweet. 

Ferrand. That little girl you had here. Monsieur — 
[Wellwyn nods.] in her too there is something of wild- 
savage. She must have joy of life. I have seen her 
since I came back. She has embraced the life of joy. 
It is not quite the same thing. [He lowers his voice.] She 
is lost. Monsieur, as a stone that sinks in water. I can 
see, if she cannot. [As Wellwyn makes a movement of 



ACT m THE PIGEON 67 

distress.] Oh! I am not to blame for that. Monsieur. 
It had well begun before I knew her. 

Wellwyn. Yes, yes — I was afraid of it, at the time. 
[IVIrs. Megax turns silently, and slips away. 

Ferrand. I do my best for her, Monsieur, but look 
at me! Besides, I am not good for her — it is not good 
for simple souls to be with those who see things clear. 
For the great part of mankind, to see anything — is 
fatal. 

Wellwyn. Even for you, it seems. 

Ferrand. No, Monsieur. To be so near to death 
has done me good; I shall not lack courage any more 
till the wind blows on my grave. Since I saw you. 
Monsieur, I have been in three Institutions. They are 
palaces. One may eat upon the floor — though it is 
true — for Kings — they eat too much of skilly there. 
One little thing they lack — those palaces. It is under- 
standing of the 'uman heart. In them tame birds 
pluck wild birds naked. 

Wellwyn. They mean well. 

Ferrand. Ah! Monsieur, I am loafer, waster — 
what you hke — for all that [bitterly] poverty is my only 
crime. If I were rich, should I not be simply veree 
original, 'ighly respected, with soul above commerce, 
travelling to see the world? And that young girl, 
would she not be "that charming ladee." "veree chic^ 
you know!" And the old Tims — good old-fashioned 
gentleman — drinking his liquor well. Eh! bien — what 
are we now? Dark beasts, despised by all. That is 
life. Monsieur. [He stares into the fire. 



68 THE PIGEON act m 

Wellwyn. We're our own enemies, Ferrand. I can 
afford it — you can't. Quite true ! 

Ferrand. [Earnestly.] Monsieur, do you know this ? 
You are the sole being that can do us good — we hope- 
less ones. 

Wellwyn. [Shaking his head.] Not a bit of it; I'm 
hopeless too. 

Ferrand. [Eagerly.] Monsieur, it is just that. You 
understand. When we are with you we feel something 
— here — [he touches his heart.] If I had one prayer to 
make, it would be. Good God, give me to understand! 
Those sirs, with their theories, they can clean our skins 
and chain our 'abits — that soothes for them the aesthetic 
sense; it gives them too their good little importance. 
But our spirits they cannot touch, for they nevare 
understand. Without that. Monsieur, all is dry as a 
parched skin of orange. 

Wellwyn. Don't be so bitter. Think of all the 
work they do! 

Ferrand. Monsieur, of their industry I say nothing. 
They do a good work while they attend with their 
theories to the sick and the tame old, and the good un- 
fortunate deserving. Above all to the little children. 
But, Monsieur, when all is done, there are always us 
hopeless ones. What can they do with me, Monsieur, 
with that girl, or with that old man.^ Ah! Monsieur, 
we, too, 'ave our qualities, we others — it wants you 
courage to undertake a career like mine, or like that 
young girl's. We wild ones — we know a thousand 
times more of life than ever will those sirs. They waste 



ACT m THE PIGEON 69 

their time trying to make rooks white. Be kind to us 
if you will, or let us alone like Mees Ann, but do not 
try to change our skins. Leave us to live, or leave us 
to die when we like in the free air. If you do not wish 
of us, you have but to shut your pockets and your doors 
— we shall die the faster. 

Wellwyn. [With agitation.] But that, you know — 
we can't do — now can we.^^ 

Ferrand. If you cannot, how is it our fault .^ The 
harm we do to others — is it so much.^^ If I am criminal, 
dangerous — shut me up! I would not pity myself — 
nevare. But we in whom something moves — like that 
flame. Monsieur, that cannot keep still — we others — 
we are not many — that must have motion in our lives, 
do not let them make us prisoners, with their theories, 
because we are not like them — it is life itself they would 
enclose! [He draws up his tattered figure ^ then bending 
over the fire again.] I ask your pardon; I am talking. 
If I could smoke, Monsieur! 

[Wellwyn hands him a tobacco pouch; and he 
rolls a cigarette with his yellow-stained fingers. 

Ferrand. The good God made me so that I would 
rather walk a whole month of nights, hungry, with 
the stars, than sit one single day making round busi- 
ness on an oflfice stool! It is not to my advantage. 
I cannot help it that I am a vagabond. What would 
you have.'* It is stronger than me. [He looks suddenly 
at Wellwyn.] Monsieur, I say to you things I have 
never said. 

Wellwyn. [Quietly.] Go on, go on. [There is silence. 



70 THE PIGEON act m 

Ferrand. [Suddenly.] Monsieur! Are you really 
English? The English are so civilised. 
Wellwyn. And am I not? 
Ferrand. You treat me like a brother. 

[Wellwyn has turned towards the street door at 
a sound of feet ^ and the clamour of voices. 
TiMSON. [From the street] Take her in 'ere. I knows 
Hm. 

[Through the open doorway come a Police Con- 
stable and a Loafer, hearing between them the 
limp white-faced form of Mrs. Megan, hatless 
and with drowned hair, enveloped in the police- 
man's waterproof. Some curious persons bring 
up the rear, jostling in the doorway, among whom 
is TiMSON carrying in his hands the policeman's 
dripping waterproof leg pieces. 
Ferrand. [Starting forward.] Monsieur, it is that 
little girl! 

Wellwyn. What's happened? Constable! What's 
happened ! 

[The Constable and Loafer have laid the body 
down on the dais; with Wellwyn and Fer- 
rand they stand bending over her. 
Constable. 'Tempted sooicide, sir; but she hadn't 
been in the water 'arf a minute when I got hold of her. 
[He bends lower.] Can't understand her coUapsin' like 
this. 

Wellwyn. [Feeling her heart.] I don't feel anything. 
Ferrand. [In a voice sharpened by emotion.] Let me 
try. Monsieur. 



ACT m THE PIGEON 71 

Constable. [Touching his arm.] You keep off, my 
lad. 

Wellwyn. No, constable — let him. He's her friend. 
Constable. [Releasing Ferrand — to the Loafer.] 
Here you ! Cut off for a doctor — sharp now ! [He pushes 
back the curious persons.] Now then, stand away there, 
please — we can't have you round the body. Keep 
back — Clear out, now! 

[He slowly moves them back, and at last shepherds 
them through the door and shuts it on them, 
TiMSON being last. 
Ferrand. The rum! 

[Wellwyn fetches the decanter. With the little 
there is left Ferrand chafes tJie girVs hands and 
forehead, and pours some between her lips. 
But there is no response from the inert body. 
Ferrand. Her soul is still away. Monsieur! 

[Wellwyn, seizing the decanter, pours into it tea 
and boiling water. 
Constable. It's never drownin', sir — her head was 
hardly under; I was on to her like knife. 

Ferrand. [Rubbing her feet.] She has not yet her 
philosophy, Monsieur; at the beginning they often try. 
If she is dead ! [In a voice of awed rapture.] What for- 
tune! 

Constable. [With puzzled sadness.] True enough, 
sir — that! We'd just begun to know 'er. If she 'as 
been taken — her best friends couldn't wish 'er better. 

Wellwyn. [Applying the decanter to her lips.] Poor 
little thing! I'll try this hot tea. 



72 THE PIGEON act m 

Ferrand. [Whispering.] La mort — le grand ami! 
Wellwyn. Look! Look at her! She's coming 
round! 

[A faint tremor passes over IVIrs. Megan's body. 
He again applies the hot drink to her mouth. 
She stirs and gulps. 
Constable. [With intense relief.] That's brave! 
Good lass! She'll pick up now, sir. 

[Then, seeing that Timson and the curious persons 

have again opened the door, he drives them out, 

and stands with his back against it. Mrs. 

Megan comes to herself. 

Wellwyn. [Sitting on the dais and supporting her — 

a^ if to a child.] There you are, my dear. There, 

there — better now! That's right. Drink a little more 

of this tea. 

[Mrs. Megan drinks from the decanter. 
Ferrand. [Rising.] Bring her to the fire, Monsieur. 
[They take her to the fire and seat her on the little 
stool. From the moment of her restored anima- 
tion Ferrand has resumed his air of cynical 
detachment, and now stands apart with arms 
folded, watching. 
Wellwyn. Feeling better, my child? 
Mrs. Megan. Yes. 

Wellwyn. That's good. That's good. Now, how 
was it.'* Um? 

Mrs. Megan. Idunno. [She shivers.] Iwasstandin' 
here just now when you was talkin', and when I heard 
'im, it cam' over me to do it — like. 



ACT m THE PIGEON 73 

Wellwyn. Ah, yes / know. 

Mrs. Megan. I didn't seem no good to meself nor 
any one. But when I got in the water, I didn't want 
to any more. It was cold in there. 

Wellwyn. Have you been having such a bad time 
of it? 

Mrs. Megan. Yes. And Hstenin' to him upset me. 
[She signs with her head at Ferrand.] I feel better now 
I've been in the water. [She smiles and shivers. 

Wellwyn. There, there! Shivery.'^ Like to walk 
up and down a little? 

[They begin walking together up and down. 

Wellwyn. Beastly when your head goes under? 

Mrs. Megan. Yes. It frightened me. I thought I 
wouldn't come up again. 

Wellwyn. I know — sort of world without end, 
wasn't it? What did you think of , um ? 

Mrs. Megan. I wished I 'adn't jumped — an' I 
thought of my baby — that died — and — [in a rather sur- 
prised voice] and I thought of d-dancin'. 

[Her mouth quivers, her face puckers, she gives a 
choke and a little sob. 

Wellwyn. [Stopping and stroking her.] There, there 
— there! 

[For a moment her face is buried in his sleeve, then 
she recovers herself. 

Mrs. Megan. Then 'e got hold o' me, an' pulled me 
out. 

Wellwyn. Ah! what a comfort — um? 

Mrs. Megan. Yes. The water got into me mouth. 



74 THE PIGEON act hi 

[They walk again.] I wouldn't have gone to do it but 
for him. [She looks towards Ferrand.] His talk made 
me feel all funny, as if people wanted me to. 

Wellwyn. My dear child! Don't think such 
things! As if anyone would ! 

Mrs. Megan. [Stolidly.] I thought they did. They 
used to look at me so sometimes, where I was before I 
ran away — I couldn't stop there, you know. 

Wellwyn. Too cooped-up.'^ 

Mrs. Megan. Yes. No life at all, it wasn't — not 
after sellin' flowers, I'd rather be doin' what I am. 

Wellwyn. Ah! Well — it's all over, now! How 
d'you feel — eh.^ Better? 

Mrs. Megan. Yes. I feels all right now. 

[She sits up again on the little stool before the fire. 

Wellwyn. No shivers, and no aches; quite comfy .'^ 

Mrs. Megan. Yes. 

Wellwyn. That's a blessing. All well, now, Con- 
stable — thank you! 

Constable. [Who has remained discreetly apart at 
the door — cordially.] First rate, sir! That's capital! 
[He approaches and scrutinises Mrs. Megan.] Right as 
rain, eh, my girl.'^ 

Mrs. Megan. [Shrinking a little.] Yes. 

Constable. That's fine. Then I think perhaps, for 
'er sake, sir, the sooner we move on and get her a change 
o' clothin', the better. 

Wellwyn. Oh! don't bother about that — I'll send 
round for my daughter — we'll manage for her here. 



ACT III 



THE PIGEON 75 



Constable. Very kind of you, I'm sure, sir. But 
[with emharrassmeni] she seems all right. She'll get 
every attention at the station. 

Wellwyn. But I assure you, we don't mind at all; 
we'll take the greatest care of her. 

Constable. [StUl more embarrassed.] Well, sir, of 

course, I'm thmkin* of • I'm afraid I can't depart 

from the usual course. 

Wellwyn. [Sharply.] What! But— oh! No! No! 
That'll be all right, Constable! That'll be all right! 
I assure you. 

Constable. [With more decision.] I'll have to charge 

her, sir. 

Wellwyn. Good God! You don't mean to say the 

poor little thing has got to be 

Constable. [Consulting with him.] Well, sir, we 
can't get over the facts, can we? There it is! You 
know what sooicide amounts to— it's an awkward job. 

Wellwyn. [Calming himself with an effort] But look 

here. Constable, as a reasonable man This poor 

wretched little girl— you know what that life means 
better than anyone! Why! It's to her credit to try 

and jump out of it! 

[The Constable shakes his head. 
Wellwyn. You said yourself her best friends couldn't 
wish her better! [Dropping his voice still more.] Every- 
body feels it! The Vicar was here a few minutes ago 
saying the very same thing— the Vicar, Constable! 
[The Constable shakes his head.] Ah! now, look here, 
I know something of her. Nothing can be done with 



76 THE PIGEON act in 

her. We all admit it. Don't you see.'* Well, then 
hang it — you needn't go and make fools of us all by 

Ferrand. Monsieur, it is the first of April. 

Constable. [With a sharp glance at him.] Can't 
neglect me duty, sir; that's impossible. 

Wellwyn. Look here! She — slipped. She's been 
telling me. Come, Constable, there's a good fellow. 
May be the making of her, this. 

Constable. I quite appreciate your good 'eart, sir, 
an' you make it very 'ard for me — but, come now! I 
put it to you as a gentleman, would you go back on yer 
duty if you was me? 

[Wellwyn raises his hat, and plunges his fingers 
through and through his hair. 

Wellwyn. Well! God in heaven! Of all the 

d d topsy-turvy ! Not a soul in the world 

wants her alive — and now she's to be prosecuted for 
trying to be where everyone wishes her. 

Constable. Come, sir, come! Be a man! 

[Throughout all this Mrs. Megan has sat stolidly 
before the fire y but as Ferrand suddenly steps 
forward she looks up at him. 

Ferrand. Do not grieve, Monsieur! This will give 

her courage. There is nothing that gives more courage 

than to see the irony of things. [He touches Mrs. 

Megan's shoulder.] Go, my child; it will do you good. 

[Mrs. Megan rises, and looks at him dazedly. 

Constable. [Coming forward, and taking her by the 
hand.] That's my good lass. Come along! We won't 
hurt you. 



ACT m THE PIGEON 77 

Mrs. Megan. I don't want to go. They'll stare at 
me. 

Constable. [Comforting.] Not they! I'll see to 
that. 

Wellwyn. [Very upset] Take her in a cab, Con- 
stable, if you must — for God's sake! [He pulls out a 
shilling.] Here! 

Constable. [Taking the shilling.] I will, sir, cer- 
tainly. Don't think I want to 

Wellwyn. No, no, I know. You're a good sort. 

Constable. [Comfortable.] Don't you take on, sir. 
It's her first try; they won't be hard on 'er. Like as 
not only bind 'er over in her own recogs not to do it 
again. Come, my dear. 

Mrs. Megan. [Trying to free herself from the police- 
man^ s cloak.] I want to take this off. It looks so funny. 
[As she speaks the door is opened by Ann; behind 
whom is dimly seen the form of old Timson, still 
heading the curious persons. 

Ann. [Looking from one to the other in amaze.] What 
is it? What's happened .^^ Daddy! 

Ferrand. [Out of the silence.] It is nothing, Ma'- 
moiselle! She has failed to drown herself. They run 
her in a little. 

Wellwyn. Lend her your jacket, my dear; she'll 
catch her death. 

[Ann, feeling Mrs. Megan's arm, strips off her 
jacket, and helps her into it without a word. 

Constable. [Donning his cloak.] Thank you. Miss — 
very good of you, I'm sure. 



78 THE PIGEON act hi 

Mrs. Megan. [Mazed.] It's warm! 

[She gives them all a last half-smiling look, and 

passes with the Constable through the doonvay. 

Ferrand. That makes the third of us. Monsieur. 

We are not in luck. To wish us dead, it seems, is easier 

than to let us die. 

[He looks at Ann, ivho is standing with her eyes 
fixed on her father. Wellwyn ha^ taken from 
his pocket a visiting card. 

Wellwyn. [To Ferrand.] Here quick; take this, 
run after her! When they've done with her tell her to 
come to us. 

Ferrand. [Taking the card, and reading the address.] 
"No. 7, Haven House, Flight Street!" Rely on me. 
Monsieur — I will bring her myself to call on you. Au 
revoir, mon bon Monsieur! 

[He bends over Wellwyn's hand; then, with a bow 
to Ann goes out; his tattered figure can be seen 
through the window, passing in the wind. 
Wellwyn turns back to the fire. The figure of 
Timson advances into the doorway, no longer 
holding in either hand a waterproof leg-piece. 
Timson. [In a cr oaky voice.] Sir! 
Wellwyn. What — you, Timson? 
Timson. On me larst legs, sir. 'Ere! You can see 
'em for yerself ! Shawn't trouble yer long. 

Wellwyn. [After a long and desperate stare.] Not 
now — Timson — not now! Take this! [He takes out 
another card, and hands it to-TiMsoN.] Some other time. 



ACT m THE PIGEON 79 

TiMsoN. [Taking the card.] Yer new address! You 

are a gen'leman. [He lurches slowly away. 

[Ann shuts the street door and sets her back against 

it. The rumble of the approaching van is heard 

outside. It ceases. 

Ann. [In a fateful voice.] Daddy! [They stare at each 

other.] Do you know what you've done? Given your 

card to those six rotters. 

Wellwyn. [With a blank stare.] Six.? 
Ann. [Staring round the naked room.] What was the 
good of this.'' 

Wellwyn. [Follovnng her eyes — very gravely.] Ann! 
It is stronger than me. 

[Without a word Ann opens the door, and walks 
straight out. With a heavy sight, Wellwyn 
sinks down on the little stool before the fire. The 
three humble-men come in. 
Chief Humble-Man. [In an attitude of expectation.] 
This is the larst of it, sir. 
Wellwyn. Oh! Ah! yes! 

[He gives them money; then something seems to 
strike him, and he exhibits certain signs of vex- 
ation. Suddenly he recovers, looks from one to 
the other, and then at the tea things. A faint 
smile comes on his face. 
Wellwyn. You can finish the decanter. 

[He goes out in haste. 
Chief Humble-Man. [Clinking the coins.] Third 
time of arskin'! April fool! Not 'arf! Good old 
pigeon ! 



80 THE PIGEON act m 

Second Humble-Man. 'Uman being, 1 call 'im. 
Chief Humble-Man. [Taking the three glasses from 
the last 'packing -case y and pouring very equally into them.] 
That's right. Tell you wot, I'd never 'a touched this 
unless 'e'd told me to, I wouldn't — not with 'im. 

Second Humble-Man. Ditto to that! This is a bit 
of orl right! [Raising his glass.] Good luck! 
Third Humble-Man. Same 'ere! 

[Simultaneously they place their lips smartly 
against the liqum, and at once let jail their faces 
and their glasses. 
Chief Humble-Man. [With great solemnity .] Crikey! 
Bill! Teal . . . 'E's^o^us! 

The stage is blotted dark. 

Curtain. 



MAR 13 1912 



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111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 1 6066 
(724)779-2111 



